


No Dominion Greater

by Darkrivertempest



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bloodplay, Dark, Drama, Explicit Language, F/M, Horror, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/pseuds/Darkrivertempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is wrong with Hermione.  Very wrong.  Will Harry be able to convince Severus that she is worth saving, despite their rocky past?  If he doesn't  it may mean the end of them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Surreal_angela](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Surreal_angela).



> Written for Surreal_Angela for the 2012 SS/HG exchange! Her prompts will be listed at the end of the story.
> 
>  **Warning:** Take the tags/warnings seriously. Dark!Hermione - if that's not your cuppa, move along. Portions of _The Prince's Tale_ chapter from Deathly Hallows are recreated in chapter 5. 
> 
> So much love goes to my supercalifragilisticexpioverbeta, Delphipsmith. You challenged me from the beginning and I can’t thank you enough for that. Unending love and gratitude goes toToblass for pushing me when I didn't want to budge, and for the countless brainstorming session – you are a gem, dear!
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters and canon Potter Verse belong to JK Rowling and associates. I am in no way affiliated with Warner Brothers, JK Rowling, or Scholastic. I do not make any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

_You can have no dominion greater or less than that over yourself. ~ Leonardo da Vinci_

 

The first time Harry realised something was not quite right with Hermione was during the reprieve in the Great Hall, just after Voldemort’s final defeat. 

He was sitting on the dais where the professors ate their meals, watching the general state of confusion, lacking the energy to do anything more to help, completely drained and mind numb with shock. Suffering had been monumental on both sides; lives and loved ones lost, the darkness conquering even the brightest light. A brief vision of what had happened in the Shrieking Shack flashed before his eyes and he was left with an empty grief he could not explain.

To distract himself from the painful thoughts, he focused on the Weasleys: Ron standing with his family in mournful grief over Fred’s body. They were clustered together against all outsiders, even Harry. He wondered if they blamed him for their loss, knowing that if the situation were reversed nothing would hold him back from destroying the one ultimately responsible. Earlier, Harry had tried to console them, but no amount of sorrow on his part would gain him entrance into the tight-knit group. 

Feeling unbearably useless, Harry moved away to where several bodies lay on trestle tables, covered with white sheets. He knew Lupin and Tonks lay together beneath the fabric of a single large sheet, but as his eyes skimmed over the others he spied one that was particularly bloody. Morbidly curious, he lifted it and to his shock saw Severus Snape. The man was gasping in shallow breaths, blood slowly oozing from his wounds. Stunned, he did the first thing that came to mind and summoned Madam Pomfrey as tears obscured his vision. He didn’t know why he cried. All he knew was that Snape needed care and that he had to have it immediately. 

With the hospital ward filled to capacity with wounded from the two-day battle, Pomfrey triaged Snape right there on the trestle table. _Vieo Viscus_ closed the largest wounds and a Blood Replenishing potion would, she said, keep him amongst the living for at least a while longer. When Harry questioned whether that was all she could do for Snape, she gave him a curious look and rattled off several adverse interactions with various potions which she suspected Snape had already ingested. 

Three hours later, bloody, bruised and aching, Snape was able to sit up and survey the chaos that reigned. Harry stood up from where he’d been sitting beside the table and followed Snape’s gaze as it moved around the room. Neville sat with Luna, holding her as if he’d never let her go. McGonagall and Flitwick scurried to and fro amongst the ruins, tending to those with minor injuries. He noticed that McGonagall studiously avoided looking at Snape. Harry couldn’t really blame her; based on their history, he wasn’t sure why he wasn’t doing the same. What he _did_ feel wasn’t something he could explain. It went beyond mere obligation, bordering on fixation. The anger he felt towards this horrible yet honourable man was not something that would disappear in the blink of an eye. Too much had happened between them, too much to just sweep under the rug. Harry had a gut feeling—the kind he knew he should listen to but often didn’t—that when things were settled, he would still have an unhealthy preoccupation with Snape. It wouldn’t sit well with others, this fascination with the unmitigated bastard. 

He dared a glance at Ginny. She was covered in muck and dust, pacing slowly in circles around her family. No one approached the Weasleys except… Harry groaned and watched as a battered-looking Lavender Brown made her hesitant way over to Ron and stood behind him. Ron didn’t acknowledge her presence, yet she stayed there, unusually silent. Ginny stopped her pacing. Her expression as she eyed the outsider, clearly suspecting Lavender was about to touch Ron, was downright frightening, and Harry shifted a little closer to Snape. Together they watched as Ginny stormed over to Lavender, who shrank from the onslaught of possible violence, and something inside Harry cringed at what he imagined Ginny might be saying to Lavender: Stay away. 

To avoid dwelling on his visceral reaction to Ginny’s behaviour, Harry scanned the area for Hermione, knowing she would be alone in all of this. He was abruptly brought back by a harsh voice at his side.

“I don’t need a nursemaid, Potter,” Snape rasped, shoving away Harry’s hand, which had been holding the thick bandage against the wound in his throat. “See to your friends.”

Harry’s first inclination was to snap at him, but the sharp words died on his tongue. “You’re still bleeding.”

Snape’s eyes searched the room, then he nodded in the direction of the double doors opening on the main entrance to Hogwarts. “Granger needs your help more than I, and the Weasley boy isn’t likely to notice her at the moment.” 

Following Snape’s gaze he saw Hermione, sitting on the cold stone floor and staring emptily out into the crowd. The dark circles under her eyes—a result of her near constant state of terror in the past weeks leading up to Voldemort’s ultimate demise—made her look much older than she was. She rocked slowly back and forth, her arms wrapped around legs pulled tight to her chest, her lips moving in what looked like a silent chant. Even from this distance, Harry could see that no distraction intruded on her senses; every word spoken to her went unanswered. Harry could understand her pain. He had probably looked like that a few hours ago himself. But she had been so strong all these weeks; what could have sent her into near catatonia? 

He was about to make his way over to her when she stood, as if in a trance. She approached, heedless of the dead and wounded, and Harry thought she might speak to him, but her attention was focused on the table next to Snape. She lifted the white sheet and stared down at the body of Narcissa Malfoy. Unprepared for the sightless blue-grey eyes, it shook Harry to his core. This witch had saved his life just hours ago. Granted, her goal was to save her son, but he hadn’t thought about what it might mean for her when Voldemort found that she had lied to him. Now, looking at the evidence of that twisted evil, Harry knew what a blow had been dealt to the Malfoy family.

A strangled noise shifted Harry’s attention to Snape, whose forlorn look was disconcerting on such a lined and weathered face. Apparently he hadn’t known that Narcissa was dead, either. Snape’s lips were tightly closed, however, so Harry looked around for the source of the sound.

Standing beside the table, clutching his bedraggled son, was Lucius Malfoy. The man was obviously broken, his bleary eyes filling with unshed tears as Draco held him close, clearly frantic at the turn of events. When Lucius slowly raised his head and registered the fact that Hermione was looking at his dead wife, Harry expected an outburst of monumental proportions—how dare a Mudblood defile a pure-blood with her filthy sympathy?—but what occurred was far more peculiar.

Lucius dropped his gaze, but his question was clearly directed at Hermione. “W-what do you see?” he stuttered softly.

Hermione let the sheet fall, covering Narcissa’s face, and turned to stare at Lucius. “Look for yourself.”

Lucius bowed his head, whether in shame at his weakness or grief at his loss, Harry couldn’t tell. “I can’t.”

Hermione made her way around the tables and stood before the Malfoy patriarch. “You did this to her because you are pathetic,” she intoned in a flat voice.

“Hermione!” Harry gasped. Despite his long and bitter history with father and son, neither of whose feelings he particularly cared about sparing, her words seemed unusually cruel.

There was no reaction on her part, only the cold, dead weight of her stare on Lucius.

Lucius’ eyes were squeezed shut in agony, the tears he had held at bay sliding down his cheeks as he inhaled shakily. “Yes... I-I did this to her.”

“And what did you do?”

“Everything,” Malfoy choked out. “This life, her choices, that... madman.”

“You dare speak of him that way?” Hermione screeched. 

Her piercing tone startled everyone around them and cut through Lucius’ anguish. He and Draco gaped at her, even as she swayed as if she might fall.

Someone clutched Harry’s arm. “Potter, grab her!” Snape growled.

It was a good thing Snape had been paying attention; Harry been so shocked by Hermione’s words that he hadn’t realised she was barely hanging on. He sprang forward and caught her just as she gave an inarticulate cry and slumped in his arms. She weighed almost nothing, and the guilt he’d felt earlier at having dragged her halfway around England for the past year redoubled.

Snape rose haltingly and beckoned Harry to follow him. “Come. It’s less crowded in the dungeons. We can have a proper look at her injuries.”

Harry lifted her in his arms and followed his former Potions Master. Hermione was limp as a rag, making it hard to carry her, but he didn’t think it would be a good idea to cast any spells on her until they knew what they were dealing with. They made it to the top of the circular stone stairwell that led to the Slytherin common room before Snape had to stop and lean against a wall, breathing heavily. 

“What about your injuries, sir?” Harry asked, shifting Hermione in his arms. “Shouldn’t Madam Pomfrey be looking after—”

“Madam Pomfrey has enough patients as it is, Potter. I refuse to burden her further. Now, if you are done offering your _expert_ medical opinion, we can proceed to my chambers.”

Ungrateful arse! Serves him right if he were to tumble down the steps and crack that skull of his. Oddly, the thought of Severus Snape lying broken and bloodied at the bottom of a stone staircase wasn’t as satisfying as it should have been; in fact, it did horrible things to Harry’s stomach, forcing him to cast a non-verbal charm that would allow Snape to traverse the stairs without falling. 

Slowly they descended into darkness, making their way past the Potions classroom towards Snape’s quarters. When they reached the doorway, Snape disabled the wards and motioned them into the room. “On the sofa, Potter,” he wheezed, his skin grey even in the low light.

Carefully, Harry laid Hermione on the soft black leather and propped her head on a cushion while Snape covered her with a blanket. Harry noticed that his hands were shaking. “Sir? I think you should sit down as well.”

Snape shot him a glare as venomous as any he’d sent in Potions class. “Mind your own business.”

Years of bitterness and anger surged up and took control of Harry’s tongue. “Pardon me for saying this, _sir_ , but you and Hermione _are_ my business. So why don’t you quit acting like a bastard and let me help you?”

It was a testament to how poorly Snape was feeling that he couldn’t muster a scathing retort and instead dropped into the wingback chair next to the sofa. “Black satchel, underneath my bed. Get it,” he grunted.

Opening the door to Snape’s inner sanctum, Harry expected to see some sort of Gothic horror chamber. Instead he was pleasantly surprised. The room was decorated in dark woods, perhaps mahogany and cherry, and emanated warmth uncharacteristic of what he knew of the Potions master. Dark blue curtains hung from a large four-poster bed and a few plush rugs scattered on the grey slate floor dispelled the chill. Knowing he’d catch hell from Snape if he didn’t hurry, Harry scrambled under the bed and grabbed the satchel wedged just under the headboard, receiving a mild shock for his trouble. Of course it had a defensive spell protecting it; he was surprised at how little the spell affected him.

He carried it into the other room and held it out to Snape. 

“Open it,” the man huffed, one hand on his chest and the other clutching the arm of the chair. 

Harry unlatched the buckle and held it out to him. He watched as Snape withdrew a medium-sized bottle, opened it and downed the rust-coloured contents—a Blood Replenishing potion, no doubt. Several moments passed before Snape’s breathing eased and his skin turned pale instead of grey, a marked improvement from its normally sallow tone.

“Here. See if you can get her to swallow this.” Snape reached into the satchel and handed him a small blue phial. 

“What is it?”

“A Calming Draught, nothing more.” His eyes glinted with a touch of their old viciousness. “Never fear, I’m not going to poison her.”

Harry sent a glare Snape’s way, then propped Hermione up against the corner of the sofa and pried her mouth open. With the edge of the bottle poised on her lower lip, he paused. “Why are you giving her a Calming Draught when she’s already out cold?”

Snape arched a black brow. “Because, idiot boy, I’m about to wake her up and I don’t wish for another episode like the one we just witnessed.”

Harry gritted his teeth to keep from lashing out—the man was, after all, clearly ill—and did as he was ordered. Although unconscious, Hermione was able to swallow the thick liquid. When the phial was empty, he handed it back to Snape. “I think it might be best if I were to wake her.”

“Fine,” Snape said with a wave of his hand. 

It was almost a shame to do so; she seemed so peaceful at the moment. Harry cupped her cheek, wincing at the purple smudges beneath her eyes. “Hermione? You need to wake up.”

Nothing.

He tapped her cheek in a light slap. “Come on, Hermione. Ron has lost the plot and I’m afraid he’ll do something to himself.”

Snape snorted. “Move aside, Potter.” He stood up with some effort and came to loom over Hermione. “Miss Granger. Gryffindor will lose five hundred points if you do not awaken this instant!”

Harry had to give Snape credit; the tactic worked. Hermione opened her eyes slowly, as if the lids were sticky, and turned her head to face them. “Where am I?” she said thickly.

“In my chambers, Miss Granger,” Snape replied. “Where you are less likely to cause a scene.”

She sat up a little. “What do you mean ‘a scene’? I-I don’t remember how I got here.”

“What’s the last thing you _do_ remember?” Harry asked.

Hermione frowned, starring off into the distance. “I felt like I was suffocating, like my body was shattering. I wanted to scream, but I had no voice. Then everything turned cold and black. I felt as if I were back at Malfoy Manor again.” She shuddered, and her gaze darted between Snape and Harry. “I thought Professor Snape was... you were... dead?”

“A lot has happened since then,” Harry said. “I’ll need to speak to you about everything. Quite a few things have changed.”

She gave Snape a nervous look. “Like what?”

“Trust me, it’ll take a long time to slog through it all, but just know that Snape is on our side.”

“I’m on no one’s side, Potter,” Snape said bluntly, sitting back down, clearly exhausted.

Harry pointed his finger at the older wizard. “You’re not helping here.” He let his hand drop into a fist. “I swear, if one of you had just told me the truth from the beginning, I would’ve—”

“Tell an eleven year-old child that he had to die in order to bring about the demise of a Dark wizard he had no prior knowledge of?” Snape snorted. “Oh yes, that would have worked brilliantly. Even I was not privy to Dumbledore’s entire plan, boy. Have some sense for once in your pathetic life.”

“Harry is _not_ pathetic!” Hermione snapped, rallying. “He just saved the wizarding world, you ungrateful murderer!”

“Hermione, don’t—”

Snape waved off Harry’s plea. “No, Potter, let her have her say. I’m curious as to what Miss Granger thinks she knows.”

Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands. He knew what was coming, and it wouldn’t be pretty. 

“You planned it all along,” Hermione said, her voice cold and accusatory. “Bide your time teaching, knowing that Harry would eventually come to Hogwarts, and then treat him horribly so that he would fail time and again. You outted Professor Lupin in third year so that he couldn’t protect us. You probably charmed the Tri-Wizard trophy to Portkey Harry to where Voldemort could be resurrected and then stood there gloating while they were duelling, waiting for him to die. And let’s not forget fifth year, where you did _nothing_ but goad Sirius Black into stupidly going to the Ministry, getting the one person Harry counted as family killed. The last two years must have been a sweet dream for you: killing Dumbledore, at the right hand of Voldemort again, running the school as if it were a recruiting stage, initiating gullible teenagers into the Death Eaters.”

Snape arched his brow, his voice low and even. “You think so?” 

“I know it! Ginny and Neville told us everything!”

“Hermione, you don’t—”

“Silence,” Snape hissed, his gaze never leaving Hermione. “Let Miss Granger retain her delusions, Potter.”

She crossed her arms. “They’re not delusions; they’re facts. Everyone knows you killed Dumbledore. Harry saw you—”

“Yes, I killed Dumbledore!” Snape shouted, startling Harry and making Hermione recoil. He rose from his chair. “I relished sending that old fool to his grave,” he snarled.

“Stop,” Harry murmured. “Please. She doesn’t know.” 

She turned to stare at him. “Know what, Harry? Don’t tell me you can somehow explain all of that!”

Snape snorted and moved towards the fireplace, bracing a hand on the mantle to keep himself upright. 

Harry sighed heavily. “Now is not a good time to go into it, Hermione. Let’s just say you don’t know even half of the truth.”

Hermione notched up her chin in defiance. “Why are you defending Snape? You used to feel the same way,” she retorted, pulling the blanket higher.

Harry grimaced and glanced at Snape. The Potions master’s expression was unreadable, but the miniscule tic in his jaw gave away his emotions. “That was before...”

“Before the Pensieve,” Snape finished. “Yes, Potter, I am not a complete dunderhead. But, as you say, that is a tale for another time.” He turned and studied Hermione. “Do you recall speaking with the Malfoys a few moments ago?”

She studied him intently. “I’m not telling you anything.”

“Hermione!” Harry objected. “He’s trying to help!”

“Help what?” she snapped. “Does he have you under an Imperius?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You know I’m not susceptible to the Imperius Curse, Hermione, you’ve seen me shake it off.” 

“Then why are you acting as if you can trust him? He just admitted to killing Dumbledore!”

“Thank you, Miss Granger, for that stunning revelation,” Snape said dryly. “However, the truth is rarely pure and never simple.”

She looked pained. “Harry, what is he talking about?”

Harry could see from the strain on her face that she wasn’t up for the long, drawn-out story that needed to be told, and which had been decades in the making. “I’ll explain it later, I promise. Now, will you please let Professor Snape check you for injuries?”

Her eyes widened, then dropped. “I’m fine,” she muttered.

“No, you’re not. You’re exhausted and we haven’t eaten anything decent in weeks. Let him—”

“ _No!_ ” she ground out.

“Fine.” Harry hated to do this, but she left him no choice. He withdrew the Elder Wand and pointed it at her, mumbling a diagnostic spell that Hermione herself had taught them while they were on the run; it would reveal any breaks, internal bleeding or abnormalities. To his relief, other than a mild fever, a fair few cuts and a swollen lip, she seemed to be generally healthy. 

“Are you quite done?” she groused. “That was low, Harry. I don’t go around pointing wands at you.”

“Erm, yeah, you did. Or don’t you remember the wicked Stinging Hex you hit me with when the Snatchers caught us?”

“That was different.” 

“No, it wasn’t. You were trying to save my life.” He grinned. “Thought I’d return the favour.”

“I told you I was fine!”

“Do _not_ raise your voice, Miss Granger,” Snape said harshly. “There are those of us with greater maladies than a split lip.”

“Go to hell, Snape!” Hermione spat. She threw off the blanket and tried to stand, but immediately fell back onto the sofa. “What did you do to me?”

“He didn’t do anything to you, Hermione,” Harry reassured her. “Just calm down.” 

“I am calm!” she shouted.

Both Snape and Harry winced at her shrill voice. Snape raised a hand to massage his forehead. “Miss Granger, if you don’t cease that caterwauling of yours…”

“What will you do?” Hermione taunted. “Toss me off the Astronomy Tower?”

“Enough!” Harry yelled, startling everyone, including himself. “You need to rest,” he said, pointing at Snape, who merely sneered and turned away. Harry looked at Hermione. “And so do you.” She gave him a mutinous look, and he had the odd feeling of being in a parental role. “We’re all tired and strung out. I, for one, could use a good kip.”

“You are more than welcome to leave. And take that harridan with you,” Snape barked. 

Hermione rose on unsteady feet. “Gladly!” She took several deep breaths. “Where’s Ron?”

“With his family,” Harry said. “They’re probably back at the Burrow by now.”

She nodded and stumbled to the door, but turned back at the threshold. “If you ever point your wand at me again, Harry Potter, you’ll regret it.” She left, slamming the door in her wake.

Snape sighed and returned to his seat, fatigue clearly apparent. “I would advise you to take that threat to heart, Potter.”

“I always take Hermione seriously.” He tugged on his hair, his mind turning over possible reasons for Hermione’s erratic behaviour. Normally, she’d have wanted a full explanation of everything, with footnotes. “Something is really wrong with her.”

“As much as I am thrilled with your acumen, I do not particularly care at this moment. Kindly leave, or I will follow through on Miss Granger’s threat.” 

Harry glanced at him, gauging his condition. “Kindly? That must’ve nearly done you in, for you to be so polite to me.”

Snape half-rose from his chair, his face darkening. “Get out, you miserable brat!”

His fury both hurt and comforted Harry. If he could rant and rave, he was further away from death’s door, which relieved Harry no end. Still, after everything he’d seen in Dumbledore’s Pensieve, everything they had both gone through, Harry felt responsible for the git, and his vitriol was like salt in the wound.

Harry stood up and went to the door. There he paused, knowing Snape’s patience was wearing thin but determined to say what needed to be said. “I’ll see you around, Snape. And for what it’s worth… thank you. For everything.”

He went out and closed the door behind him before he could see the sneer taking up its customary residence on Snape’s face.

* * *

The second time Harry noticed Hermione’s odd behaviour came a week later, at the Burrow. 

Fred’s funeral had been earlier that day and everyone was dealing with the grief in their own way. George was firmly entrenched in denial, refusing to eat. Molly was caught between pain and anger. The rest of the family tip-toed around the two of them, aching with their own pain and not knowing how to help. Harry and Hermione had been invited to stay for dinner after the service; he’d felt a welcome sense of family at the invitation, but now he was uncomfortable. No one really acknowledged their presence, not even Ron or Ginny. 

Night was edging into the sky when Harry found Hermione sitting in the orchard, back against a tree, staring at nothing. It was chilly for a spring evening and she was dressed in a black halter-top dress, gooseflesh evident on her bare shoulders. He draped his robes around her thin frame and sat down next to her.

“Where are you staying?”

She slowly blinked a couple of times. “I found a one-bedroom flat on Chancery Lane in London, near the tube station. It’s busy during the day, since it’s in the business district, but it’s very quiet at night.”

“Sounds brilliant. I’m in London as well, at Grimmauld Place. There really wasn’t anywhere else for me to go.” He hesitated for a moment, knowing his next question was a bit touchy. “What happened to your parents’ home?”

“Destroyed,” she whispered. She plucked a purple tulip from a cluster of them and twisted it slowly in her fingers. “I’m pretty sure Yaxley tore it apart. I need to find them, you know that, right?”

Harry nodded. It had always been a foregone conclusion that when everything was settled, Hermione would go and find her parents. 

“I asked Ron to come with me,” she went on quietly.

“What did he say?”

She shrugged and stripped off one of the green leaves of the flower. “He said he couldn’t leave his family at a time like this.”

Harry didn’t know how he felt about this. Hermione had always been there for him and Ron, and it seemed like they should be there for her now. At the same time, it was hard to imagine the Weasley clan not being together at a time like this. “You’re not thinking of going alone, are you?”

The tulip, now denuded of all its leaves, fell to the ground. “I can take care of myself, Harry. We’re not on the run anymore.”

He took her hand and threaded his fingers with hers. “I know we’re not, Hermione. But, you see… there’s this lovely witch, who stood by me through everything—good and too terrible to mention—and she’s daft if she thinks I won’t stand by her as well.” 

She gave him a wan smile. “Ah, well, Ginny’s a lucky witch.” Her eyes dropped to study the grass.

There was something heart-breaking in her voice, and before he knew what he was doing, he cupped her face, tilting her chin until she was looking at him. “I wasn’t talking about Ginny,” he said fervently. His thumb strayed across Hermione’s lower lip, soothing its trembling. 

Her eyes were wide and dark in the moonlight. “I thought…” She frowned. “I wanted—”

“There you are!”

Ginny’s voice should have made Harry’s insides sing, but instead a lead weight settled in his stomach. He dropped his hand and waited for her to cross the length of the orchard to where they sat. He couldn’t tell if she’d seen Hermione or not, but she came to a sudden halt once she rounded the copse of trees a few feet away from them. 

“Oh!” An awkward silence fell. “Erm, Ron was looking for you, Hermione.” Ginny’s tone was clearly one of irritation.

“And?” Hermione said, not looking up.

Harry glanced at Hermione; the tulip she had picked earlier hung in shreds from her fingers. 

Ginny crossed her arms and shifted from foot to foot. “I think he wants to talk to you.”

Hermione lifted her head and glared at Ginny. “Well, I don’t want to talk to the moronic twat, so go away.”

Harry covered his mouth to keep from objecting… or laughing, he couldn’t decide which, torn between surprise at Hermione’s words and amusement at Ginny’s facial contortions. 

“That ‘moronic twat’ is all you have left, Hermione Granger,” Ginny bit out. “Merlin knows how many times you probably shagged both of them while you three were on the run. Couldn’t just stick with Ron, could you?” Harry opened his mouth but the words somehow wouldn’t come. “Well, it’s done. It’s over. Voldemort is dead. Harry’s _mine_ now. If you’re as smart as everyone says you are, you’ll find Ron and apologise to him.” 

Oh, this was not good. “Ginny,” Harry admonished, finally finding his tongue. Even as he spoke, he found himself looking around for something to hide behind. Or under.

Hermione rose and stepped around him to stand very close to Ginny. “You’re wrong, little girl.” She raised a hand and caressed Ginny’s cheek. “I would never let that blood-traitor near me, let alone fuck him. You, on the other hand?” Hermione trailed her fingers down Ginny’s neck, across her shoulder and then fisted her hand in the red hair at the back of the other girl’s neck, yanking her head back. “I bet every one of your brothers has had a go at your pretty, ginger cunt.”

Harry’s jaw dropped in shock as he heard Ginny draw a gasping breath. He’d seen Hermione angry before, but nothing like this. This sort of vicious obscenity was nothing like the girl he knew. He scrambled to his feet. “Hermione, let her go.” He placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and squeezed hard.

Ginny was shaking, looking to Harry for help, but Hermione didn’t even acknowledge his words or notice his grip on her. She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips and leaned close to Ginny’s face. “I can smell his seed on you.” Hermione’s free hand drifted down Ginny’s dress, skimming her breasts to cup her privately. “You rutted with him before you came looking for Harry.” 

Ginny jerked away as Harry released Hermione and stared at her. His mind couldn’t make sense of what he’d just seen and heard from either of them. “What the hell is she talking about, Gin?”

“I don’t know!” she ground out, but her averted gaze told him something different.

“Oi! What’s going on here?”

Harry swore silently. Worse and worse. Of all the times for Ron to show up... 

“Tell your mad girlfriend to get off me!” Ginny shouted as her brother rounded the shrubbery and stepped into view.

“I’m _not_ his girlfriend!” Hermione released Ginny and shoved her towards Ron.

Ron caught his sister as she fell into him, nearly toppling them both. “What’re you talking about?” he said. “`Course you are, Hermione.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You really are thick, you gormless prat!” 

Ron looked at Harry, confused. “Is she sick?”

Hermione lunged at Ron with an incoherent cry, her fingers curved into claws, but before she could wrap her fingers around his throat, Harry caught her by the waist and held her tightly. “Calm down, Hermione, come on now,” he said soothingly.

“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all!” she screamed, and then went completely limp in his arms. 

Ginny and Ron stared at the two of them in absolute horror. He couldn’t blame them, after what she’d said; best that they just got out of there until tempers cooled and he could sort out what was going on. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Tell your mum it was a lovely service and dinner.”

He didn’t wait to hear their response. He Apparated both of them to Grimmauld Place, hoping against hope that Hermione was just suffering from stress, or some sort of breakdown.


	2. Chapter 2

They say it’s the little things that betray you—the actions observed or the words said here and there over time that add up to something more. In Hermione’s case, her words and actions were adding up to concrete evidence that something was terribly wrong with Harry’s best friend. 

After the fiasco at the Burrow, he didn’t dare leave her alone. She didn’t protest; she seemed as frightened as he was. He asked her to stay with him at Grimmauld Place because he didn’t trust her on her own; Merlin knew what might happen if she had one of her fits in public. She agreed and, after a quick trip to retrieve some of her essentials from her sparsely furnished flat in London, they settled in and tried to sort out their lives. 

Harry stayed in Sirius’ old bedroom while Hermione moved into Regulus’. Two nights later he opened his eyes in the middle of the night to see her standing over his bed, staring at him. He tried to speak to her, but she only whined, like an injured animal. It sent the hairs on the back of his neck straight up. Eventually she went back to her room, but the sight of her empty eyes kept Harry awake the rest of the night.

The next morning, Harry eased the Elder wand out from under his pillow. He knew he couldn’t keep it; hadn’t the tale proven that it was too powerful a lure for envious and ambitious wizards to resist? Besides not wanting to succumb to its powerful influence, he didn’t want to be constantly looking over his shoulder for the next would-be Dark Lord who wouldn’t hesitate to kill him in his sleep for one of the Deathly Hallows. The remnants of his old holly wand were wrapped in the invisibility cloak, which Harry had tucked in the steamer trunk at the end of the bed. Once he repaired it with the Elder Wand—at a time when he could focus his attention completely—he would place the Hallow with its rightful owner and hopefully its power would fade with its memory: into legend. Until then, he carried it with him at all times.

It occurred to him that Hermione had lost her wand as well, and he wondered how she was getting along without one. Hers hadn’t been broken, like Harry’s, but lost, taken by the Snatchers who delivered them to Malfoy Manor, so she’d had to make do with what was at hand. Maybe that was what was making her so odd lately, the lack of a wand. With her parents gone she had some money, but no source of income. Feeling they could both use a day out and fresh air, he decided to take her to Ollivander’s and purchase one for her the next day. 

The next morning, they set out for Diagon Alley. Harry wanted to go in the early hours before the crowds became unmanageable, and they made it to the shop with only a few hearty handshakes, a couple of slaps on the back, and one woman asking if he would kiss her baby so that it would be blessed the rest of its days. He hated this sort of attention, had always hated the notoriety attached to his name. It had bothered him more and more over the years, and he could foresee it becoming completely out of hand in the near future. The last few days, the papers had been abuzz with Voldemort’s death and, along with it, Harry’s fame, the names of the fallen heroes and the prisoners awaiting trial. Harry’s feelings when he read the list of those being charged with war crimes were complicated. Relief, maybe. Curiosity, certainly. He was surprised that Snape’s name had not appeared on the list as of yet, at least according to yesterday’s edition of the _Daily Prophet_ , but whenever Kingsley questioned Harry about the Death Eater-cum-spy, Harry was always quick to defend him. It occurred to him that he should owl Professor McGonagall and find out what he could about Snape, since there was little chance the man himself would tell him. 

They reached Ollivander’s, and Harry immediately disliked the oily wizard that appeared at the jingle of the shop door’s bell. 

“Oh, Mr. Potter. What a privilege!” The man bowed low enough that Harry could see the grimy stains at the back of his collar. “James Kiddell, at your service.” 

During their weeks at Shell Cottage, Ollivander had never seemed truly himself after his ordeal at Malfoy Manor, so it was no surprise that he was not working now. The man before them, however, was fawning so disgustingly that Harry was reminded of Peter Pettigrew. Well, the sooner they completed their business, the sooner they could be out of there. 

“My friend needs a new wand.” Harry nodded towards Hermione.

“Ah yes, Miss Granger. Brightest witch of her age!” She curled her lip as Kiddell grabbed her hand and pressed a sloppy kiss on the back. “Please, this way.”

She gave Harry a dubious look before following the thin wizard past the teetering stacks of boxed wands. Harry assumed it would take quite a bit of time for Kiddell to match Hermione with a wand, so he glanced around the shop for something to do, his eyes finally falling on that day’s edition of the _Prophet_.

 _Rogue Factions Still At Large!_ read the headline. Great. He shifted the paper around to see the article. There was no by-line but the tone positively screamed Rita Skeeter: 

_Now that He-Who-Will-Continue-To-Not-Be-Named has finally been dispatched—in what we are told was a most spectacular battle—by the moody but brilliant Harry Potter, one would think the Ministry would be quick to apprehend all known Death Eaters for prosecution. Alas, dear readers, it seems the governmental policies put in place by former Minister Fudge and (may Merlin grant him safe passage) Minister Scrimgeour remain all too firmly present, and have delayed what should have been a swift execution of justice. Take, for instance, the convoluted case of Severus Snape. How is it that this dark, malicious, horrible wizard, who terrorised the beloved Chosen One and served for so many years at the right hand of the now-defunct Dark Lord, still walks free? Does he hide behind Hogwart’s walls? No trial, not even an informal inquiry! Well, someone must still hold a grudge, for only last evening the allegedly former Death Eater’s summer home in Cokeworth was reduced to ashes. It is rumoured that meetings of a most nefarious nature often occurred at the grimy residence in Spinner’s End, including one starring the infamous Black sisters, Bellatrix and Narcissa, now deceased. Perhaps the house held proof that pointed to Snape’s culpability in more than just the scandalous murder of his predecessor as Headmaster, the sagacious and well-beloved Albus Dumbledore. Did devious malcontent Snape set the blaze himself to destroy such evidence? Inquiring readers need to know!_

Harry’s lips thinned. “Rita Skeeter can go to hell any day now,” he muttered, dropping the paper in disgust.

“Perhaps I can help with that?”

He turned at Hermione’s voice and felt a sudden chill at the sight of her. There was something... he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but she was different—she moved with greater confidence, had a harsher edge to her features. It was all of those things and more. Had she cast some sort of glamour? If so, why?

She gave him a knowing smile and waved her wand gracefully. “Alder, twelve and a half inches, centaur hair core.”

He raised his eyebrows at the unusual choice of material.

“Flexible,” Mr. Kiddell whispered as he emerged from the stacks, his eyes glazed over. “Excellent for defence and curse work.” 

Hermione gave him a negligent glance, then continued to swish and flick her new wand.

“How much?” Harry asked Kiddell.

The wizard started, as if awakening from a deep sleep. “Free. Yes, free of charge for the illustrious Mr. Potter.”

“Free? No, I really need to pay for—”

“Harry. I’ve already paid him,” Hermione said, absentmindedly. “We can go now.”

When had she paid him? They hadn’t been gone that long, and she didn’t have any money. He was about to question Kiddell, but somehow Hermione had led him out of the shop and when he looked up, they were standing in front of Scrivenshaft’s.

“I need some quills,” she said, tucking her wand into her sleeve. “I won’t be a moment.”

An unsettled feeling inched its way up his spine. Hermione usually asked him to come into shops with her—mostly, he always thought, because she wanted someone whom she could ask advice, which she could then ignore—but now she clearly wanted him to wait outside. He nodded and watched her disappear through the doorway. 

Harry didn’t know how long he waited; it could’ve been a few minutes or an hour, or even two. At one point he noticed Ron, Ginny and George amongst the crowd. It wasn’t clear if they saw him—he had backed into an alcove to avoid more strangers wanting their babies kissed—but spied them easily enough. Hard to miss all that red hair. None of the Weasleys had contacted them since Fred’s funeral, and to be honest he had no inclination to speak to them. 

It wasn’t just Hermione’s actions at the Burrow that caused him to stop communications, though. Something about Ginny’s behaviour in the orchard that night had raised his suspicions, and when Hermione had called her on it, he thought he could see guilt in her eyes. Maybe he didn’t _want_ to know what had happened. Combine that with the new animosity between Hermione and Ron, the overwhelming grief that seemed to permeate the very air at the Burrow and the way the family had shunned him after the battle—no doubt blaming him at some level for Fred’s death—and it was enough to thoroughly drain Harry of any desire to make overtures.

He was tired. He’d done what the wizarding world had wanted. Why wouldn’t they just let him rest?

* * *

Late the next evening, Harry found Hermione sitting in the library, poring over a stack of thick and mouldy books. He thought nothing of it at first—she _always_ had her nose in a book—so he left a tray of tea and sandwiches on one of the tables and silently closed the door. When the next morning came, however he found her still in the library, asleep on an opened book with ink-stained fingers spread across a closely-written parchment. He peered over her shoulder, wondering what sort of notes she was taking. The words he saw meant little to him: Catoptromancy, rune magic, binding diagrams, reflections…

Abruptly a book slammed down on the notes, blocking them from Harry’s view. 

“What do you want, Harry?” Hermione asked, her voice raspy. 

She looked terrible, her face pinched and exhausted. “You’ve been at this all night. It’s time to take a break, don’t you think?”

She blinked and rubbed her red-rimmed eyes. “Oh, right. I’m sorry. I am rather tired.” 

“I’ll make us some tea and toast.”

She nodded and closed the books stacked around her, but didn’t get up to shelve them. 

Harry went into the kitchen, his stomach growling. The morning _Prophet_ arrived just as he was spreading marmalade on the toast and he froze, knife suspended in mid-air, at the sight of the headline: 

_Ollivander’s Cursed! Apprentice Kiddell Dies Mysteriously!_

Harry swallowed down the lump in his throat as he remembered Hermione’s words from yesterday: _I’ve already paid him._ He shook his head. No, that was ridiculous. What could Hermione possibly have to do with this? As he read further, the article said there were no markings on the body to indicate a struggle, and no residual magic which indicated the use of a hex or curse. Kiddell hadn’t looked very healthy, and even wizards were subject to heart attacks. The case was currently under investigation, so he’d just have to wait on their findings.

When Harry returned to the library Hermione was sitting on the leather sofa, staring at the empty fireplace, her legs pulled up and her chin resting atop her knees.

He set the pot of tea on the table next to her, but she didn’t move. In fact, she didn’t move all that day and his unease grew with every passing hour. Her tea went cold, untouched. Around noon Harry tried to get her to eat, but the soup he had warmed dribbled from her lips onto her pyjama top when he tried to spoon a little into her mouth. He talked to her, then begged and pleaded with her, all to no avail. Finally, around ten in the evening, she rose on shaky legs and made her way to the loo. Harry intended to give her some much-needed privacy, but when he heard her retching into the toilet and came in to see tears streaming down her face, he’d reached his limit. This couldn’t go on.

The next day, Harry Apparated to the gates of Hogwarts and trudged his way up the hill, noticing along the way that much of the debris had been removed. He could see Hagrid and Firenze pulling in tandem, shifting an enormous boulder over to a pile where Grawp was bashing the stones into smaller fragments. He thought about saying hello, but knowing Hagrid’s penchant for nattering on for hours, he said nothing and continued on his path. 

Much of the castle lay in ruins. The areas that remained intact included the dungeons, the Headmaster’s chambers, most of the second and third floors, the library and the Slytherin dormitories, but everything else was destroyed or in a shambles. It would take extensive work to make them habitable again, and Harry wondered if the Sorting Hat would be sorting any students at all in September.

When he found himself in front of the familiar gargoyle, he realized he was at a loss. The last password he’d known was ‘sherbet lemon’, and that was when Dumbledore had been Headmaster. He had no idea what Snape, and McGonagall after him, had changed it to. 

“Beetle to button,” said a stern voice from behind him.

Harry turned and smiled at Professor McGonagall. “One of our first Transfiguration lessons, right?”

She nodded, an indulgent look on her face, and motioned him to precede her up the spiral staircase. “As I recall, Mr. Weasley’s attempts resulted in a plethora of buttons that scurried about. They were quite difficult to recapture.”

“Sounds like Ron,” he laughed as he sat down in the chair in front of her massive desk. 

She sat down in the Headmaster’s—Headmistress’, now—chair, folded her hands and gave him a piercing look. “What can I do for you, Mr. Potter?” 

She had never one to beat about the bush, so he came straight to the point. “Professor, I think there’s something wrong with Hermione.”

Her brows furrowed. “Wrong? In what way? I’m afraid you’ll need to be a bit more specific.”

He frowned. “That’s just it, I can’t. Not really. It’s a lot of little things that just... aren’t like her. I think she might have been hit with a stray curse. She’s not friendly with the Weasleys anymore, she’s saying things that Hermione would _never_ say, even when she was furious. She’s hiding things from me. And...” he hesitated, then plunged on, “she’s reading texts and books that I think deal with Dark Magic.”

“I see.” McGonagall pressed the tips of her fingers to her lips, which had always been a sign of deep thought. “You realize, Mr. Potter, these could all be symptoms of stress. Have you spoken to her about your concern? I’ve never known Miss Granger to be unreasonable, especially if you present your argument in a logical way.”

“I would if she’d speak to me at all. She hasn’t said much since it was all over. A few words here and there, but nothing you could call a sustained conversation.”

McGonagall nodded. “That is one of the more common signs of post-traumatic stress—a disinclination for, or avoidance of, conversation. I recall that when my husband passed, I hardly spoke a word for three months. You, Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley have all been through such terrible experiences over the past year that, quite frankly, I’m surprised none of you have ended up in St. Mungo’s.” She gave him a tight smile, but he could see that she was not entirely joking.

Harry shook his head. “I know the symptoms of shock and stress, Professor, and what Hermione’s doing isn’t that. It’s something so foreign, I don’t know how to deal with it. I mean, would stress cause Hermione to call Ron a blood-traitor? Or make...” He could feel that he was blushing, “... well, sexual advances towards Ginny?”

McGonagall paled. “My word. I see your point. Well, what can we do to assist you?” 

Harry had the distinct feeling that he was speaking to the wrong person when it came to Dark Magic. “What I really came to ask, Headmistress, is... where’s Professor Snape?”

She shifted the stacks of parchments on her desk, avoiding Harry’s gaze. “He is not here at the present moment.”

“Then where is he?” He tried to quell the alarm in his voice.

“He’s been dismissed,” McGonagall said with a sniff. 

“What? Why?”

She sent him a glare that made his stomach churn. “You know why, Mr. Potter.”

“You fired him for nothing but rumours? _Rita Skeeter’s_ rumours?” Harry stood and moved to the door before anger could make him toss a hex her way. “You should be grateful, Professor McGonagall. If it weren’t for Severus Snape, I wouldn’t have survived my first year at Hogwarts, let alone lived to fulfil that bloody prophecy.”

Her stricken look did nothing to ease Harry’s disgust. Could the man never catch a break in his miserable life? And McGonagall, of all people, who knew what Snape had done for Dumbledore, and for the Order! He made his way down the staircase and by the time he landed at the bottom, he had a purpose in mind. Outside Hogwart’s iron gates, he Apparated, not to Grimmauld Place, but to what was left of Spinner’s End. For Hermione’s sake, he hoped he’d find the snarky git. 

He just hoped Snape wouldn’t curse him when he did.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry stood in front of the charred remains of the dilapidated row house, taking in the utter destruction. 

Though the fire had started two days ago, the ruins still contained smouldering embers, as evidenced by the hisses and snaps he could hear as the light rain fell upon them. The outline of the brick foundation was the only hint that this had once been a home. Whoever had set the blaze had even scorched the back garden. Harry had never seen the inside of Snape’s house in any detail in any of the memories he had been given, but he wondered if his former professor had lost everything of personal value; clearly he was homeless.

Gingerly, Harry stepped over the threshold and toed at the smoking debris, searching for he knew not what. One such prod brought forth the damaged remains of a book; according to the title, a text on blood magic. He bent and retrieved the book, which had apparently been hacked in two before it became kindling. He flipped through the torn pages, then let it drop on a pile of blackened wood. 

“There’s nothing left.”

Harry spun round to see Draco Malfoy standing on the pavement under a black umbrella with a miserable-looking house-elf holding the blond’s hand. “Think I figured that one out for myself, Malfoy.”

Instead of a nasty retort, Draco just arched a finely shaped brow. 

“Why are you carrying an umbrella? Why not cast a Water Repelling Charm?”

Draco’s lips thinned. “You don’t keep up on current events, do you? Father and I have been stripped of our wands and placed on probation for two years. If we want to travel, we have to make use of these wretched things.” He shoved the house-elf away as if it were diseased.

Lately, Harry had taken to skipping over any news pertaining to the Malfoys; there must have been an impromptu trial. Now he wished he hadn’t been so dismissive of the pure-bloods. “What do you want?” he asked as he continued picking his way through the mess. 

“Severus felt the wards alarm, so I came to see who was disturbing his property.”

“Fat lot of good the alarms did him a couple of days ago.”

Draco shrugged. “It wasn’t my business then. It is now.”

“Why? Where is he?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Somewhere safe. At least for the moment.”

Harry snorted. “I doubt that.” He came to a halt in front of Draco. “Tell me where he is.”

It was Draco’s turn to scoff. “Hand him over to the people who put him in this position? I don’t think so, Potter. ”

Before Draco could turn to leave, Harry had the Elder Wand pressed against the blond’s throat. “You’ve changed your tune, Malfoy. Just last year, you hated his very existence. Convince me you have his best interests at heart.”

Draco sneered. “Bit hypocritical, aren’t we? What’s made you so bloody concerned all of a sudden?”

Harry wanted to shout, to scream that he wasn’t a Malfoy, that his intentions were purer than Draco’s could ever be. But Draco was right. Telling other people about Snape’s memories was not an option, so he would have to find some other way to prove to his most bitter rival that he truly wanted nothing more than Snape’s welfare. 

Stepping back, Harry held up the wand. “You recognize this.” 

Draco’s eyes widened and he nodded.

Taking a deep breath and hoping he wasn’t making a colossal mistake, Harry handed Draco the Elder Wand. “Take me to him. Please.”

Draco weighed the wand in his free hand, his expression confused; this comforted Harry, as he was in the same boat. He expected Draco to point the wand at him, but instead the blond pocketed it in his robes.

“Severus was right; you’re so overly dramatic,” Draco said with a roll of his eyes. 

“You would know,” Harry retorted, a smirk tugging at his lips. 

Draco tsk’d in disgust and turned on his heel. “Follow me if you want to see him.”

* * *

Malfoy Manor had not changed since Harry’s first visit. The crunch of gravel underneath his feet, the shrill call of the albino peacocks looking down upon him from their perches on the high hedges, the unnerving feeling he was approaching his doom the closer they came to the main entrance. Even though he knew Voldemort was dead, Harry had to rigidly control his emotions when the double doors opened and Draco ushered him inside.

As they made their way down the long corridor, Harry observed that the Aurors had done a thorough job of raiding the manor at some point. Rectangular smudges showed on the walls where portraits had been removed. As they passed what Harry guessed was the library, he noticed several shelves emptied of large sections of books. 

“Most of the heirlooms were hidden before the Ministry louts could flag them for retrieval,” Draco offered in passing. He looked over his shoulder at Harry. “And before you run and tell your precious Shacklebolt, they’ll never be found. The only people who know where they are kept are either dead or will never tell you.”

“Paranoid git. I wasn’t going to tell anyone.” Well, he might at some point… a long time from now. With Malfoys, it wasn’t wise to rule anything out.

Draco came to a halt in front of an oak door. “Of course I’m paranoid. Wouldn’t you be?” He knocked.

It swung open, revealing a rumpled Snape. “Well? What did you…” The words died on his lips the moment he spied Harry. “What is _he_ doing here?” 

Harry could see the dark circles under Snape’s eyes, and guessed the wizard was under a tremendous amount of strain—physically and mentally. “I need to talk to you,” he said quietly but firmly.

Snape attempted to shut the door, but Draco’s hand stopped it swinging closed. He glared at the blond. “I have nothing more to say to him.”

Draco rifled through his robe pockets and withdrew the wand, handing it to Snape. “He gave me this.”

Snape had been a spy for almost the whole of his adult life, an expert at hiding his feelings, and during the time that Harry had known him, he had never exhibited one ounce of trepidation or a ruffle of metaphorical feathers. Now, the only way to describe the look on his face was anguish and fear. 

Snape took the Elder Wand and held it tightly. “Leave us, Draco.”

Draco gave Harry an assessing look before nodding and walking away down the hall. Snape remained in the doorway, unmoving, and it wasn’t lost on Harry that he hadn’t been invited inside Snape’s rooms.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asked quietly, hoping to defuse the tension.

Snape snorted and moved aside to allow him entrance. “Like I had a snake rip out my throat two weeks ago. Next asinine question.”

Harry sat down at a small table on which several parchments were piled one atop the other. Most of them looked like legal papers. “Are you living here now?”

Snape sneered. “The statement was rhetorical, Potter.” He quickly gathered the documents and placed them in a wooden box, slamming the lid shut. “Obviously, such subtlety is lost on you.”

“Obviously,” Harry muttered. Now that he was here, talking to Snape, he had no idea what to say. If he came right out and asked for the man’s help, he was sure he’d be turned down flat. Beating about the bush with inane conversation would earn him the same result. Navigating a conversation with Snape was like walking in a Muggle minefield. “I saw your house,” he offered finally. 

“What’s left of it.” Snape sat down across from Harry, crossed his arms and glared. “Are you here merely to look decorative, or do you actually have a purpose, Potter?” 

Bastard didn’t waste any time, did he? Fine, then. “I need your help.”

“When _haven’t_ you needed my help?” Snape taunted.

“Don’t,” Harry gritted out. “Just… don’t. I get it, okay? I owe you more than my bloody life is worth. But this isn’t about me.”

That stopped the contempt inching its way across Snape’s face. “Go on…”

Harry was sure that if anyone but himself was having an issue, Snape would hear him out. That shouldn’t hurt, but it did. “Something is wrong with Hermione.”

Snape’s face showed no sympathy. “And this is news? Potter, you informed me of Miss Granger’s malaise weeks ago. Have you found no explanation as of yet?”

Harry shook his head. “She refuses to see a Healer. She’s up all hours of the night. In fact, she scared the shite out of me when I woke up and found her looming over my bed.”

Snape’s brows rose. 

“And she’s always in the library, poring over the books—some of the topics I’ve never heard before. She’s even broken into the warded section. I didn’t even know Sirius _had_ a restricted section until I caught her ripping apart the panel they were hidden behind. She looked at me like she was going to hex me into next week, and her fingers were all bloody.”

“Perhaps she’s simply doing research, as out of character as that might be,” Snape said, sounding bored. 

Harry thinned his lips. Snape was deliberately missing the point. “Yeah, well, in between her bouts of insomnia, fanatic research, and starving herself, she’s talking to people she’s known for years—people she loves—like they were nothing more than rubbish.”

“You included?”

Harry looked away. He didn’t know how to categorise how Hermione talked to him, looked at him. It was akin to fear and hate rolled into one. “She tolerates me more than most.”

Snape sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “And just what do you wish me to do about Miss Granger?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m here. You know more about Dark magic and spells than any wizard alive.”

“What makes you think it’s Dark magic?” Snape asked with a frown. 

“Call it a gut feeling.”

“And you expect me to waste my time on your unformulated plan because you had a rotten bit of beef at supper? I think not.” He rose, clearly intending to show Harry the door. 

Harry blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I’ll give you Sirius’ library!”

Snape stopped in his tracks, and he slowly turned to stare at Harry. His eyes glittered acquisitively. “All of it?”

Manipulative prick. “All of it,” Harry confirmed.

The smirk that Snape sent his way settled like a lead weight in his stomach. “Done.”

* * *

As expected, when Harry and Snape returned to Grimmauld Place they found Hermione in the library, scribbling like mad, taking notes from a thick tome open to her left. Snape stood behind him, silent, and observed her for several moments. Harry was just about to interrupt her when she slowly raised her head and sent him a piercing look, her smile a bit crooked. 

“Harry,” she purred. 

Merlin, her eyes! The only thing Harry could think about was falling into them... 

“Potter!” Snape grabbed hold of his arm and shook him.

Harry blinked several times. He was several steps inside the room, but he didn’t recall moving. When he was able to focus once more, chills spiralled up his spine at the malicious look on Hermione’s face. It was very apparent she was not happy to see Snape.

“What do you mean by bringing _him_ here, Harry?”

Snape answered before Harry could speak. “I was invited by Mr. Potter, Miss Granger. I wonder if you and I may have a word in private?”

“No,” she growled and returned to her books.

“Hermione, please?” Harry begged. He didn’t want to cast a spell on her, but he would if he had to. 

“Harry, why would you let this traitor into your house?” Hermione asked, her tone cold. 

“You may be right for once in your misbegotten life, Potter,” Snape murmured low. “Even when perturbed, Miss Granger rarely became glaringly cross.”

“You don’t know about her _Oppugno_ spell, then,” Harry muttered.

“Mmmh. Indeed.”

“It’s rude to talk about me when I’m in the room… and can hear you,” she seethed.

“Then perhaps you should act like an adult and join the conversation,” Snape suggested. 

Hermione gave them both a very put-upon look and slammed the book shut. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have murdered certain people, Snape. Then you wouldn’t have to rely on the mercies of St. Potter here.”

“Hermione!” Harry yelped. What the hell was wrong with her?

Snape stepped away from Harry and withdrew his wand, pointing it at Hermione. “I dislike this amicable pretence. _Legilimens_!” 

Though he didn’t condone Snape’s methods, Harry made no objection to the spell, and instead awaited the backlash. Beads of sweat formed on Snape’s brow as he held Hermione’s gaze, and Harry knew the pressure was mounting. He’d experienced the very same thing when Snape crashed through his mind. 

But this task seemed monumental, and at last Snape dropped his eyes and sagged into a chair, clearly disturbed and baffled. “Chaos,” he muttered. “Interspersed with moments of dormancy.”

“What does that mean? You looked like you were struggling to get past her barriers.”

Snape snorted. “Because that’s all there is, Potter—barriers. There are few, if any, cracks in her mental shield.”

“That’s good, isn’t it? That means she’s like a natural Occlumens, right?”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily. “Do try to recall your disastrous lessons from two years ago. There is no seam through which I can penetrate her mind. It was almost as if there was a void where her psyche should be. A blank slate, as it were, is not possible. It would mean the person is, for all intents and purposes, brain dead.”

“Are you quite finished?” Hermione snarled. 

Harry and Snape studied the witch before them, who returned their perusal with a scathing glare of her own. 

“My apologies, Miss Granger,” Snape said with a nod. “I had intended—”

“Shut up.” Hermione turned to Harry and scowled. “How could you let him do that to me?”

“Hermione, there’s something wrong—”

Her slap cut short Harry’s protestations. He held his hand to his cheek, his jaw hanging open in stunned silence.

She narrowed her eyes at Snape. “Don’t _ever_ do that again. If you even think about it, you won’t live to see the next day.” She grabbed her rolls of parchment and backed out of the room, never taking her eyes off them until she was in the corridor, then turned and fled.

Harry was at a loss. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, glancing at Snape.

Snape waved off his apology, his attention focused on the section of books whose large gaps indicated where Hermione had been engaged in study. “There is precious little time to waste if you wish to help your friend.” He selected a thin volume from a high shelf. “If my suspicions are correct, and they usually are, Miss Granger is fighting something she can have no hope to conquer on her own.” 

“I can’t just write her off, Snape!”

Snape read a page or two. “You have appalling hearing, Potter. I said, ‘if you wish to help’. If you do not, let her continue on her self-destructive path. I care not.” He reshelved the book. 

Harry felt a flicker of hope. “Fine. What are your suspicions?”

“I’ll reserve judgement at this time. The possibilities could alarm you.”

“A bit late for that, don’t you think?” Harry snapped.

Snape plucked an abused quill from an empty inkpot. “Sometimes the things we possess, possess us in return.” He dropped the quill on the desk. 

“Could you be any more cryptic?” 

“Possibly,” Snape said with a smirk. “Here.” He withdrew the Elder Wand and handed it to Harry. “Do _not_ give this to just anyone, Potter. You are fortunate that Draco was incapable of using it against you. I must go now. I will return tomorrow.”

Harry felt a mixture of relief and anguish at the thought of Snape’s leaving. On the spur of the moment, he voiced a thought he’d been mulling over since finding out that Snape’s house had been destroyed. “You could always live here until you find your own place.”

Snape gave him a derisive look. “Not even if it were the only house left on Earth, Potter. Especially with you in residence.” 

Harry bit his lip hard to keep from yelling. “Why do you hate me so much?” he managed to get out, just as Snape reached the door. 

The dark wizard paused on the threshold. “You mistake me. In order to hate you, I would have to feel something for you. I feel nothing.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “Nothing? For anyone?”

“For no one,” Snape affirmed and closed the door. 

Harry stood just inside the library, willing himself to remain where he was and not go after the miserable curmudgeon. The low chime of the grandfather clock in the hall told him it was four o’clock in the afternoon. Time for a bit of tea. He glanced towards the kitchen, trying to summon the courage to face Hermione and failing horribly. 

Instead, he made his way over to the sofa and sank into the cushions, laying his head on the armrest. Most days he could deal with the constant turmoil his life had become. Today, however, it just hurt to breathe.

* * *

As Harry spooned a healthy portion of sugar into his tea the next morning, Hermione quietly sat down in front of him, pouring herself a cup as well.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, stirring in milk and sugar. “About yesterday.” She glanced up at Harry and grimaced. “I don’t remember much, but what I do remember was not pleasant. I didn’t feel well.”

“You haven’t felt well in the past few weeks, Hermione. Maybe even months.”

She rubbed her temples. “Since Malfoy Manor.”

It had often puzzled Harry how Hermione was able to act as if nothing had happened in the months after they had escaped the Manor. She had gone about her usual routine: taking charge where and when she needed to—and sometimes when she didn’t—doing as much research as she could, and keeping them all alive in the thick of things. When either he or Ron asked what had happened to her while they were locked in the dungeon, she would refuse to answer, saying that it was over now and not to worry anymore. And since the final battle, the Hermione Harry knew had begun to crumble away, bit by bit. 

He was well past worrying—he was outright panicking. Even if it set her off again, he had to get some answers. “Can you please tell me what happened when you were with Bellatrix?”

Hermione shuddered violently and squeezed her eyes shut, a lone tear escaping. “You’ve seen the word she carved into my arm,” she whispered. “But there were moments when she...” Hermione swallowed a sob. “She... promised Greyback he could have me when she was done.” She opened her eyes, filled with such horror. “I could hear him, Harry. I could hear him grunting and breathing, just over my shoulder, and I was afraid to look. I’ve never been afraid. But I was that day.”

Harry took her hand and gave it a tight squeeze. “It’s okay to be scared. I’d have been bloody terrified.”

“I wasn’t just scared, Harry. I was about to die! I fully expected to be eaten by that thing that kept pacing behind Bellatrix. But then she dragged me off into a chamber… and I don’t remember what happened after that.” 

“When Dobby freed us and we found you, Bellatrix was holding you very close.”

She nodded and pulled her hand out of Harry’s grasp. “But I don’t know what happened in the meanwhile. What if…what if they did things to me?”

He was reluctant to voice his suspicions about what might have occurred in case it frightened her more. “Do you think—”

A crack of Apparition sounded from the garden and both of them froze. Harry had a pretty good idea of who it might be, but he was wary of Hermione’s reaction after what had happened the day before.

“That’s probably Snape,” he said.

As predicted, she stiffened. “Why do you trust him? You haven’t given me any logical reason as to why you should.”

“If I promise to tell you everything after he leaves, will you please try to be civil?”

She actually looked contrite. “I’m sorry. Here you’ve allowed me to stay with you and I’ve treated everyone abysmally. I know I’ve been rude.”

He didn’t need to tell her how nasty she’d been. Instead, he gave her a small smile and rose to go to the back door just as a knock sounded. He opened it, admitting Snape, who strode in and seated himself at the table across from Hermione without a by-your-leave.

“Tea, Potter,” he barked. As an afterthought, he added a curt, “Miss Granger.”

She nodded hesitantly. “Professor Snape.”

His brows rose. “Back to our swotty self today, are we?”

Harry felt an urge to toss the teapot at the bloody man, but refrained. Instead he produced a cup, filled it and thumped it down in front of Snape. “So, have you found anything?”

Cup poised on lips, Snape shot him a glare. “And how might I ‘find anything’ when both my subject and materials are located here? I am here to conduct research, Potter. You did promise, after all.” There was definitely a triumphant smirk on his face. 

“What’s he talking about, Harry?”

Snape was doing this on purpose, Harry was sure of it. “I promised him something in exchange for his help.”

She glanced between the two of them. “His help with what? And what did you promise him?”

Oh, she was so not going to like this. “I don’t know nearly half of what Snape knows when it comes to Dark magic, Hermione. We need his help.”

“With what?” she reiterated, trepidation clear in her voice. 

“Why you, of course, Miss Granger,” Snape interjected, as though it should have been obvious.

“Me?”

Snape placed his empty cup on the saucer and folded his hands, giving Hermione a pointed look. “Mr. Potter has expressed his concern, and rightly so, that you are exhibiting, shall we say, less than normal behaviour. At first I dismissed his apprehension, assuming it was nothing more than anxiety and stress on your part from a long and arduous journey over the past months and the loss of many of your friends. However, I was forced to amend my initial conclusion yesterday when I was able to observe your mind.”

“You mean force your way inside,” she spat. “Legilimency should be included in the Unforgivables.”

Snape shrugged. “I tried to apologise yesterday, but you seemed unwilling to accept it, so I won’t do so now. Besides, it was necessary.”

“Raping someone’s mind is never necessary!”

“There was nothing there to rape, as you so eloquently put it, Miss Granger!”

“Both of you, be quiet!” Harry shouted, slapping his hand on the table. When nothing was forthcoming from either of them, he continued. “Hermione, I understand how you feel; having him barrel into your brain is traumatising. I even got a nosebleed or two from the pressure inside my head when he was trying to teach me last year.”

“I was never aware of such an occurrence,” Snape said. To Harry’s surprise, his tone was concerned. “You should have told me, or at the very least Dumbledore.” 

Harry looked away. “Yeah, well, Dumbledore still would’ve made me go to those sessions, so it wasn’t worth the literal headache.” 

“But you _agreed_ to those lessons, Harry,” Hermione said bitterly. She glared at Snape. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Hermione,” Harry said patiently, “you’ve refused to see a Healer; you’ve barely eaten enough to keep a bird alive for the past few weeks. You sleepwalk, you spend all your time studying books that scare me just to read the titles; you’ve said things to the Weasleys and to me that, if you were yourself, you’d be ashamed to even think. Short of holding you down and letting Snape cast every diagnostic spell imaginable on you, I didn’t see any other option. _I_ had no choice.”

She slumped back in her chair, defeated. “I had no idea I was sleepwalking.”

“Most people don’t,” Snape pointed out. “What Potter is trying to say in his bumbling, dunderheaded way, is that he is concerned for your welfare to the point that he has consulted me. Which clearly demonstrates how desperate he must have been. I agreed for a price.”

“What price?”

“Sirius’ library,” Harry muttered.

“Harry, you can’t!” she gasped. “Sirius trusted you keep his legacy safe!”

“And just what do you think I intend to do with these books, Miss Granger?” Snape said acidly. “Sell them to unsuspecting collectors of Dark Arts in hopes of inspiring another Dark Lord? Or perhaps I plan to use them for myself and raise an army of Inferi? I am, after all, still a Death Eater.”

“No, you’re not,” Harry grumbled. “Snape wouldn’t do those things, Hermione. I don’t want them in the house anymore. And who better to keep the collection safe than someone who’s well-versed in handling the Dark Arts? You wouldn’t want someone like Lucius to get his hands on them, would you?” He glanced hesitantly at Snape. “You wouldn’t give them to Malfoy, right?”

Snape snorted. “You should have thought about that before you agreed.”

“See?” Hermione crossed her arms. “He’ll just sell them to the Malfoys and then it’ll be like Voldemort all over again.” She turned away. “And I was using them to research.”

“Research what, specifically?” Snape asked, studying her intently.

Her expression was closed off, despondent. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Harry was about to tell her that it might matter a great deal when he heard several cracks of Apparition sound from the back garden. Conversation stopped abruptly, and all three of them tensed, glancing at each other uneasily. 

“Who else knows I’m here, Potter?” Snape whispered. 

While the Ministry hadn’t sent Snape to Azkaban, they were watching him very closely. Since he had yet to have a formal trial, as the Malfoys had, Harry knew Snape would not willingly surrender himself to their less-than-tender mercies. “No one, except us and Draco.”

Snape rose and peered out through a grimy window, his lips thinning. “Weasleys. The whole tribe, if I’m correct.”

Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Great. Just what we don’t need.”

He noticed a slight smirk playing about Hermione’s mouth, but a loud knock on the door distracted him from asking her what was so amusing. Snape hastily backed into a corner, trying to blend in with the few shadows that lingered, but his eyes were riveted on Hermione. 

Sighing, Harry answered the door and was met with a bone-crushing hug by Mrs. Weasley. “Oh, my dear boy! You’re so thin!”

He spit out a tendril of red hair that found its way into his mouth. “I’m trying, Mrs. Weasley.”

“Oh pish! Men don’t know anything about cooking. I’ve brought something that will put some meat on your bones.” She shoved a crock of something delicious-smelling into his hands. “I’ve put a Stasis Charm on the pot, so it will stay hot as long as there’s food in it.” 

“Good to see you, Harry,” Arthur said, with a slap on his back that nearly caused Harry to drop the food. He leaned close and whispered in Harry’s ear, “She’s taken to feeding everyone that lets her. It’s her way of coping.”

Harry nodded and stepped back to the let the rest of the family inside. George meandered past, a ghost of his former self, and sat at the table, not even acknowledging him. Charlie nodded a greeting and slipped into the kitchen to sit next to George. Harry guessed that Charlie was keeping an eye out for his younger brother, a responsibility that must be heavy indeed. There was no sign of Bill or Percy. 

Ron gave him a hesitant smile and a pat on the back. “`Allo, mate.”

“Hey, Ron.” Harry turned to say something to Hermione but her chair was empty. He looked around until he found her, standing very close to Snape.

Ron followed Harry’s gaze and his eyes widened. “Professor!”

“Mr. Weasley,” Snape drawled. Hermione gave a strange little jerk, and Harry caught a glimpse of the grip Snape had on her elbows, as if restraining her. Snape minutely shook his head at Harry’s concerned expression.

“Hey, Hermione,” Ron said, oblivious to the tension mounting in the room. “Can I talk to you?”

Snape tightened his hold. “I don’t think that would be wise, Mr. Weasley. Miss Granger is… distraught.”

Ron frowned heavily. “I think she’s distraught because of the way you’re man-handling her. I suggest you let her go.”

“Hey, Harry,” Ginny remarked as she closed the door behind her, stopping short at the sight of Ron squared off with Snape. “What’s going on?”

Harry didn’t answer. All his attention was focused on Snape, Hermione and Ron. He had a sense that things could go very bad, very quickly, and he just hoped Snape knew what he was doing.

“If I release Miss Granger, I will not be responsible for her actions.”

“What are you talking about, Severus?” Molly asked, clearly puzzled.

Snape arched a brow in Harry’s direction in an unspoken question. 

“Hermione’s not feeling well,” Harry answered. “Snape and I are trying to find out if she’s been cursed or hexed, and it would be best if she didn’t have contact with other people just now.”

Ron scoffed. “Seems like she’s having a lot of contact with Snape, there.”

Hermione tried to lunge at Ron, but Snape pulled her against his chest, one arm across her shoulders, the other at her waist. It crossed Harry’s mind that they looked very intimate in the embrace, like they belonged together. 

“What’s going on here, Harry?” Arthur asked.

Harry set the crock he’d been holding on the counter, trying to decide how much to tell them. “I told you, Hermione’s been sick. We don’t know what’s going on with her, and it’s best that she not be around things or people that agitate her… like Ron.” He looked over his shoulder. “Or Ginny.”

“Me?” Ginny objected. “What did I do to her?”

Hermione smiled at Ginny, her usual expression distorted into a leer. “There once was a redhead named Ginny, who'd mouth any cock for a penny. She slurped and she sucked, but she'll never get fucked, 'cause Harry hates gingery fanny!” 

Ron bristled. “Are you calling my sister a whore?”

Snape snorted, but promptly covered Hermione’s mouth with his wide hand. “As we said, she’s unwell.”

Silence fell for a moment, then Arthur coughed. “Yes, well, I see what you mean. Perhaps we’d better go.”

“No, I want to know what she meant by that,” Ginny said in an irritated tone. 

Hermione was prevented from answering by Snape’s bruising grip. “If you don’t stop struggling,” he hissed at her, “I’ll have to hex you. Cease!” 

“I don’t think you should be hexing anyone, Severus,” Arthur warned, wand in hand. “In fact, I think perhaps it’s time you came with me to the Ministry to answer some questions. We’ve been very lenient with you for Harry’s sake.”

“Lenient?” Snape grated. “You call burning down my house so you could flush me out into the open _lenient_? What’s the matter, Arthur? Not wizard enough to come and get me yourself?”

Harry looked at Arthur, seeing the man in a new light. Had the Ministry seriously destroyed the house at Spinner’s End because they were afraid of Snape’s power? Only a handful of people knew of Snape’s true purpose, his true allegiance, Harry being one of them. As for the rest of the wizarding world? Harry had assumed that society had been willing to forgive what they saw as Snape’s mistakes and even crimes, but if what Arthur said was correct, they were just too fearful to arrest Snape and prosecute him, especially with Harry defending him rather than slandering him in the papers. And now that Snape was holed up at the Malfoys, Harry realized they would be doubly cautious about invading the manor again. 

“Don’t you talk about my father that way, you vicious git!” Ron spat and advanced on Snape.

“Ron, don’t!” Harry stepped between them, knowing if Snape was cornered he would simply disappear.

But he was too late. Snape snarled at Ron, withdrew his wand and Disapparated, taking Hermione with him.

“Bloody hell!” Ron shouted. “He’s got my girlfriend!” He turned on Harry. “Are you just going to let him go?”

Harry stared at all the people in his kitchen, wishing for the first time in his life that he was alone. “Ron, I don’t think she considers herself your girlfriend.”

“What? Why not? I mean, I came here to tell her I’d go to Australia with her to look for her mum and dad, and I find her practically snogging Snape! What has been going on here, Harry?” 

Harry shook his head, undecided whether to laugh or cry. “She wasn’t snogging Snape, Ron. Like he said, we’ve been working closely together and she feels safe with him.” Which was probably a complete lie, but he wasn’t going to tell Ron that. 

Molly cleared her throat. “We’d best be going, Harry,” she said quietly. “Come along, Arthur, Ron, the rest of you.”

George rose from his seat as if in a trance, not having said one word the entire time. Charlie shook Harry’s hand briefly, with a quick, “Good to see you.” Ron refused to move until his father grabbed his arm and manoeuvred him out the door, Molly in tow. 

That left Ginny.

“Do you know where they went?” she asked innocently.

A little too innocently, Harry thought. He had a pretty good idea where Snape had taken Hermione, and it wasn’t going to be pleasant. “Not a clue,” he lied easily. He gave Ginny a small smile but moved away when she attempted to draw him into a hug. “I think you’d better go. I need to find them.”

She shrugged. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry. Dad will find them.”

Harry was immediately on edge. “What do you mean?”

Ginny moved close and ran her fingers up Harry’s chest. “I overheard Dad telling Bill the other day that Dumbledore had put Tracking Charms on you, Ron and Hermione at that last Order meeting, in case one of you got into trouble and needed help. The head of the Order would be notified if your stress levels became too high and it would give the general location to where you were.”

Harry thought back, calculating when the last Order meeting with Dumbledore had been—August, just before his fifth year at Hogwarts. “That bastard,” he growled. He deftly removed Ginny’s hand and pushed her away. “Dumbledore knew all along what was happening to us, but he did nothing about it.” When the Headmaster was killed, who would have become the head of the Order? Odds were it was Moody—the wizard was one wave short of a shipwreck, and he’d probably consider any ‘stress’ they suffered to be for the greater good. With Moody dead, that left Shacklebolt. If it was him, there wasn’t much chance he’d go looking for Hermione, not with as busy as he was trying to piece together the wizarding world. 

This only confirmed his earlier suspicions: that the greatest wizard he’d ever known, and whom he’d once thought the world of, had in reality been the ultimate puppet-master. Now, they had bigger problems. He didn’t want the Tracking Charm on Hermione activated for any number of reasons, not least of which because he didn’t want an entire squadron of Aurors raining down on either of them. Oh, he was sure Snape and Hermione could handle themselves without batting an eyelash, but the fierce protectiveness he felt for both of them refused to let them fight alone. 

“I’m sure there’s an explanation for everything that’s happened, Harry,” Ginny said softly. 

Harry pinned her with a heated glare. “Sure there was: to make me the ultimate killing machine when the time came.” Ignoring her urgent and profuse apologies for something she hadn’t even done, he opened the door. His tone brooking no argument, he said, “You should leave.”

When he closed the door after her, he blew out a harsh breath and Disapparated straight to the iron gates leading onto the grounds of Malfoy Manor.


	4. Chapter 4

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were deliberately complicating things,” Harry said crossly.

Draco had been waiting for him at the gate when he had arrived, a disgruntled look on his face. He had quickly shown Harry to Severus’ quarters, where Hermione was seated in a chair, tightly bound with an Incarcerous Charm. Snape must have also added a _Silencio_ , because although Hermione’s face was red and she looked to be screaming, not one sound could be heard. 

“You don’t know me at all,” Snape muttered. “Has it occurred to you that I saved you from having to reattach certain body parts on that ginger idiot by removing Miss Granger before she inflicted true damage?” 

“I don’t think Hermione would—”

“That’s your problem, Potter: you don’t think!” Snape made his way to where Hermione was sitting and stood behind her. “Look at her.” He withdrew Hermione’s wand from his robe pocket. “If she had this, she wouldn’t hesitate to kill you!”

Harry slowly moved to stand in front of his best friend, bending low to stare into her face. She strained against the spells that held her in a savage bid to reach him. Just as she lunged forward to bite him, Snape grabbed her hair and tugged her back in place, her teeth snapping on empty air. Harry jerked back as her jaw clenched and she drew up and spit at him. 

Tears filled Harry’s eyes. This was not the witch who had protected him, helped him all those years. He wiped away the spittle on his cheek. “Remove the Silencing Charm.” 

“Potter…”

“Do it.”

Snape sighed heavily and muttered a _Finite_ , and soon the air was filled with Hermione’s screams of fury.

“You bastards! I’ll rip your balls off and feed them to the crows! How dare you treat me this way? Let me go, now, or I’ll send you to meet your worthless godfather, you coward!”

Shocked, Harry rose and took a step back. “Hermione, please, it’s me, Harry.”

“I know very well who you are!” She spat at him once more. “You and your precious doggie, the only one you had left. Given half a chance, Sirius would’ve fucked you in the arse!”

Harry’s eyes widened and he glanced at Snape. The dour wizard shrugged and gave him an ‘I told you so’ look. 

“Never speak of Sirius that way,” Harry snarled at Hermione. 

A coy smile curved her mouth and her voice went soft and caressing. “Aww, did you _love_ him, Harry? Did you _want_ him to fuck you like a good puppy?”

Harry raised his hand, ready to let it fly, but he stopped at the last second. “Don’t _ever_ say that again!”

Snape cast a sharp _Silencio_ before she could utter more vulgarities. “I trust you see the inherent problem. Left to her own devices, Miss Granger could very well eviscerate someone for merely looking at her.”

Harry collapsed to the floor and leaned back against a cedar chest that rested at the foot of Snape’s bed. “Do you have any ideas, any theories as to what’s wrong with her?” 

“When we first arrived, I cast several diagnostic spells on her, finding, in essence, nothing.” Snape sat down in a chair near Hermione, casting occasional looks at her as if making sure she wasn’t in any danger of escaping the bindings. “I will not attempt Legilimency on her at this point; it is exhausting even in the best of situations, and in her current condition it would cause me a significant amount of pain.” He steepled his fingers. “I have witnessed only two other cases of this sort of personality shift: Draco Malfoy and Professor Quirrell. As you know, Draco’s was due to the extreme stress he was under. Quirrell’s was another matter altogether.”

“You knew Quirrell before?”

Hermione began to buck in her seat, nearly upending the chair. Snape aimed a _Petrificus Totalus_ at her and her thrashing ceased, her eyes frozen in a mutinous glare. 

“Yes,” Snape resumed. “We had been teaching together for two years before you arrived at Hogwarts. He was very much like Miss Granger here: studious, nose forever in a book. He taught Muggle Studies for two years and then was approached by Albus for the Dark Arts position. He expressed his desire for first-hand experience before he felt he could competently instruct in such a subject, since his prior knowledge had been based mostly on theory rather than actual practice. Albus agreed and sent him to Albania. Of course, I cautioned him not to lower his guard, but when he returned the next year, his personality had altered greatly. Gone was the somewhat reserved wizard who was confident in the subject he taught. He had become nervous, fidgety, acquired an eye twitch and a stutter.”

Harry rubbed at his faded scar. “Yeah, that was a bit of a shock when he dropped the act and tried to throttle me.”

Snape nodded and glanced at Hermione. “I imagine her characteristic behaviours have been dwindling gradually.” He leaned over and snagged a lock of her hair, holding it up for Harry’s examination. “I believe Miss Granger’s hair is normally brown with soft, golden highlights and a frizzy texture. See the difference now?”

Harry raised his brows. Since when did Snape notice the colour of Hermione’s hair? For that matter, why was he being… well, nice? For Snape, anyway. It gave Harry a queasy feeling in his stomach. He shook himself out of his reverie and stood up to take a closer look. “It’s curlier. And darker.”

Snape’s calloused fingers gently rubbed the strands before releasing them. “Quirrell didn’t start wearing a turban until he returned to begin teaching the Dark Arts. I was unsure what lay beneath the fabric, but he did have shoulder-length hair when he left for Albania.”

“He was bald,” Harry rasped, and rubbed his face. “Voldemort was fused into his head. It was hideous.” He tugged on his forelock, almost afraid of voicing his suspicions. “Do you think Hermione has a Horcrux inside her, like I did?”

Snape pursed his lips and sat back, his focus on the bound witch. “My first inclination is to say no, but I am unsure. I have in-depth knowledge of Horcruxes, though not as extensive as the Dark Lord’s. Quirrell was never a Horcrux, though he carried Riddle for nearly a year.”

“You didn’t know I was one, not until my sixth year.” Harry couldn’t keep an accusing tone from creeping into his voice.

“I had my suspicions,” Snape murmured and looked away. “Dumbledore… kept things from me, as he should have done. As he had to do.” 

“That’s bollocks, Snape, and you know it,” Harry snapped. “If either of you had bothered to tell me what was going on—what I had to do—especially, oh, maybe around fifth year, did you never think I might just offer myself up and be done with it?”

Snape sprang from his seat and curled his fist in Harry’s shirt collar, his face grim and set. “You bloody martyr!” he hissed. “I wanted him gone as much as you, if not more! But I wasn’t such an idiot as to sacrifice my position when there was still so much to be done. Had you ‘offered yourself up’ during your fifth year, those you left behind would still be fighting, still be searching for those damnable Horcruxes. You were told when you needed to be told, and not a moment sooner!” His voice rose to a shout. “Not everything is about you, you fool-hardy imbecile!” 

“Am I interrupting?”

Harry and Snape turned to see Lucius standing at the door, a dubious look on his face. Snape released Harry’s shirt with a shove that sent him staggering back against the wall and returned to his seat next to Hermione. Harry shrugged his shoulders to ease the tension that had built during their shouting match.

Lucius eyed Snape. “Draco told me you had company…” His gaze flicked to Hermione and his lip twitched into a sneer. “Though I see that ‘company’ is perhaps too strong a word?”

“Don’t start, Malfoy,” Harry warned, wanting to deter Lucius’ condescending comments before they could start; neither he nor Snape was in any mood for the Malfoy brand of humour. “Snape and I are doing research.”

“Is that what you call it?” Lucius gave the motionless Hermione a lengthy perusal, smirking, before turning to Snape. “I hadn’t realised your tastes ran towards bondage. If you’re interested, I have—”

“Enough, Lucius,” Snape growled, thumping his fist on a side table. “We both know I’ve had my fill of slavery to last more than three lifetimes. I will not subject another to its atrocities.”

“Pity,” Lucius sighed. “Miss Granger looks like she enjoys being… restrained.”

Snape and Harry turned to see Hermione, now moving a little more freely, writhing sensually in her chair, casting Snape smouldering looks. She licked her lips, lowered her eyelids and focused on him with an entreating gaze, as if begging him to touch her.

And Snape slowly moved towards her, reaching out to…

“No!” Harry shouted and cast a quick _Repello_.

The older wizard was thrown back and landed on the floor in a heap, much as he had when Hermione cast a similar spell in their third year in the Shrieking Shack. Harry turned to Hermione and, heedless of Snape’s earlier warnings, ended all the spells that were binding her. She took a deep, gulping breath, moaned Harry’s name, and sagged bonelessly in the chair, unconscious. 

“Still making a mess of things, Potter,” Lucius sighed, irritated. He stepped across to Snape and helped him to stand up. 

Harry levitated Hermione to the bed. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Malfoy.” He covered her with the thick duvet. “The way I see it, _you’re_ the ones that created the mess; I just cleaned it up.” 

“Arrogant whelp!” Lucius spat. “If I had my wand, I—”

“But you don’t, do you?” Harry said with a hard glare. 

Lucius advanced on Harry with murderous intent, but Snape’s firm grip on his arm brought him to a sudden halt. “Potter has never known when to hold his tongue,” Snape ground out. “But he is also correct: you are in no position to teach him manners.”

Prying Snape’s fingers from his bicep, Lucius shoved his hand away. “You’re getting soft, like that doddering old fool you served.” He strode to the door, pausing to send Harry a scathing look. “As for you, I tolerate your presence for Severus’ sake. It isn’t as if I had much choice. I’m sure you would run to your precious Ministry and demand to be allowed access to the manor or our lives in general, and they’d lick your boots as the hero you are. But make no mistake. Cause any harm to myself or Draco, and you’ll meet the same sticky end as your parents.”

“From who? The Wandless Wonder of Malfoy Manor?” Harry retorted. “Don’t make me laugh.”

Lucius gritted his teeth and curled his fists. “You may have destroyed the Dark Lord, boy, but you haven’t really won. You’re a fool if you think there isn’t someone just as powerful as Riddle waiting for the opportune moment, when your guard is down. They’ll conquer again and then where will you be, O Chosen One?” Lucius laughed nastily. “And I guarantee that when that time comes, you’ll beg me to help, beg me for guidance on how to dispatch the brand new monster waiting to invade your dreams. And I will take great pleasure in dismissing you and throwing you to the wolves.”

The slam of the door startled Harry, even though he knew it was coming. He swore silently that he would _never_ ask Malfoy for anything, especially help. 

“Though he is without a wand, it is unwise to rile Lucius Malfoy, Potter,” Snape advised as he sat gingerly on a chair. He arched his back and groaned. “Merlin, I hate you sometimes.”

Harry dropped onto the bed next to Hermione and took her hand. “Only sometimes?” He felt a slight relief that Snape didn’t hate him all the time. 

“How is she?” Snape asked, avoiding the question.

“Her hands are cold, but her forehead is warm.”

Snape came over to the bed and sat down on the other side. He murmured a _Lumos_ and lifted her lids. “Her pupils are dilated.” He pressed his fingers to the side of her neck, just under the angle of her jaw. “Slightly rapid pulse. I would say she is in mild shock.” 

“What do we do, then?”

“Do? We do nothing. Rest is what is needed, perhaps a more nutritious meal?” Snape rose from the bed and headed for the door. “Cast a _Vigila_ charm that will alert us if she awakens, and follow me.”

“Why?”

Snape paused and narrowed his eyes. “Did it slip your feeble mind that you have asked for my help with Miss Granger? If you have changed your mind, then promptly leave and take her with you.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “You know I haven’t. I just think someone should stay with her.”

“Fine. Do as you wish,” Snape said negligently. “We could of course search the library for possible spells or curses that would mimic the effects of a Horcrux. I had thought it would go more quickly with two of us. Apparently, I was wrong.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but simply left the room.

“Damn it,” Harry muttered under his breath. He was reluctant to leave Hermione alone, but he also wanted to find what ailed her as quickly as possible so they could set about healing her. 

With a sigh, Harry cast the strongest charms he knew so even if her breathing altered in the slightest, he would be alerted. He leaned down, brushed a kiss on her forehead and left the room.

* * *

Two hours later, Harry and Snape were knee-deep in heirlooms, cursed objects and books of every shape and size in a hidden chamber accessible only through the cellars of Malfoy Manor. After a light meal, at which Lucius did not make an appearance, Draco had led them to this obscure room where they hoped to find something of use. He’d then left, saying he and his father needed to discuss some Muggle ventures. Harry was highly surprised at this, but all Draco would say on the matter was that, “Father was no fool when it came to investments, regardless if they were wizard or Muggle.” 

From their position, Harry and Snape could see anyone that ventured into the impromptu dungeon, but they themselves could not be detected. The chamber thus acted as a means of spying as well. 

Harry had his nose in a book when he heard the iron gate that guarded the main entrance to the cellar creak open. Since his Vigila Charm had not activated, Harry assumed it was Draco.

It was. But he was followed by a shadow.

Harry tugged on Snape’s robe and held a finger up to his mouth, hoping he would remain silent, then pointed towards the two figures. Snape frowned and turned to look out into the main area. 

Draco cautiously descended the stairs, almost as if he knew someone was trailing him. Harry had to give the Slytherin credit for his cool reaction; he himself wouldn’t respond at all well to the suspicion of anyone tracking him after everything that had happened. Draco made a right at the bottom of the steps instead of the usual left that would lead to the hidden room, then whipped around suddenly, only to be met with nothing.

He scanned the darkness. “I know you’re there,” he called out. “Show yourself.”

Harry half-expected Lucius to emerge from the inky blackness, or even Kingsley Shacklebolt on a surprise visit, but when he recognized Draco’s stalker he could not have been more stunned if Voldemort himself had stepped into the dim light. Silhouetted near an archway stood Hermione, staring at Draco in a way that unnerved Harry. 

It wasn’t just the fact that Harry’s charm had never gone off that disconcerted him; Hermione’s appearance was altogether peculiar, different. Her arms hung loosely against her body, as if a great weight lay upon her shoulders. Hair that was normally frizzy and unmanageable lay in limp strands across her back and neck, heavy with water as if she’d just come in from a drenching rain. The blouse and denims she had worn that morning now hung on her frame in an ill-fitting manner, her shape so very thin. This was not the same witch he had left in Snape’s rooms.

“I thought Potter left you tied up?” Draco said in a petulant voice. “Come to relive old memories?”

Stepping closer, she purred, “Something like that.” She ran her fingers down the buttons on Draco’s dress shirt.

He grabbed her wrist to halt her wandering hands. “What do you want?”

Harry tensed, ready to intervene, but Snape shook his head, leaned close and whispered, “We may learn more about her condition if we allow this to play out.”

Trying to ignore the shivers Snape’s voice sent up his spine, Harry nodded and peered into the dimly-lit chamber. 

“I want you to tell me where it is. I know Mummy told you,” Hermione cooed, leaning into Draco and pressing her body against his. 

Draco shoved her away. “Fuck off, Granger,” he growled. “Never speak about my mother again!”

“She was a coward,” she mocked. “Just like your father and Snape.” She tilted her head to study him. “But at least your father has an imposing presence, I’ll give him that much.” Leaning closer, she ran her tongue slowly across her lips and whispered, “What do you have?”

To Harry’s surprise, Draco didn’t react immediately to her taunt. Perhaps after everything that had happened, Draco had decided to adopt the classic Slytherin life-saving skill of keeping his ears open and his mouth shut.

Instead of rising to the bait, he returned her intense study. He walked around her, picking up a lank strand of her hair, tugging at the blouse covering her torso, finally coming to a halt and staring at her. “You know _nothing_ about my mother.”

“Is that so?” she countered with a feral smile. “She told you something; I can see it in your eyes and I can smell the fear on you even now.”

Draco flared his own nostrils. “I’m not afraid, especially not of you.”

The sharpness of Hermione gaunt cheekbones grazed the fullness of his as she laid her cheek against his in a parody of affection and whispered in his ear, “Prove it.”

He gave her a hearty shove that sent her sprawling at the base of the stone steps. “Maybe you have a hearing problem, Granger,” he hissed. “I said you know nothing!”

“Ah, but _you_ do. What if I told you that you could have eternal life?” she offered, sitting on her backside and looking up at him.

Harry glanced at Snape, who looked just as surprised and confused. _Horcrux?_ , he mouthed. 

Snape shook his head more slowly this time, a harsh frown marring his features. Harry moved closer to the door, ready to protect Hermione—or, Merlin forbid, Malfoy—in the event the situation called for it. 

“You amuse me, Mudblood.” Draco took a step forward and landed a swift kick to her hip.

Harry nearly bolted out into the open, ready to kill Draco, but suddenly found himself unable to move, or even utter a word. He struggled for a moment in confusion, then realised that Snape must have cast a non-verbal _Silencio_ and a Full Body Bind on him to prevent him from revealing their whereabouts; Harry felt a grudging admiration for the man’s considerable magical skills, though he immensely disliked him in that moment. 

“Watch and learn, impetuous brat!” Snape whispered softly in his ear.

As if he could do anything else, in this condition. Had he been able to move his face, however, he would have frowned, for Hermione wasn’t even wincing from the pain. In fact, she was giving Draco a wicked smile. 

“What makes you think you know the secret to immortality, hmm?” Draco crossed his arms. “The Philosopher’s Stone was destroyed, vampirism is overrated, and you’re definitely not the Dark magic sort.” He squatted down and gripped her chin forcefully. “So tell me… how could you make such an empty offer?”

Her smile widened, giving her haggard face the look of a grinning skull. “I won’t tell you. You’ll have to earn it.” She spit at him, laughing—no, _cackling_ , Harry thought—as the saliva landed in his right eye.

Very slowly, Draco wiped the offending substance off, then narrowed his gaze. Without warning, he backhanded her across the face, the crack echoing in the chamber.

Harry was still motionless, but inside he was seething, fuming and itching to hex anyone who dared to touch his friend. Even Snape pursed his lips as if disturbed. 

Draco stepped away and wrung his right hand; to Harry, a few of the fingers appeared swollen and at odd angles. Good—he hoped the abusive prat had broken them all. 

Hermione did nothing, simply stared at Draco, blood trickling from a long gash on her cheek. Harry watched in morbid fascination as she touched the rapidly forming bruise below her left eye, her fingers coming away with crimson fluid clinging to their tips. She opened her mouth and slowly, sensuously, curled her tongue around each digit, sucking them clean. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to know?” she taunted, batting her eyelashes at Draco.

Clenching his fist in the material of her shirt, he pulled her close until they were nose-to-nose. “You’re a sick, twisted bitch, Granger.” He shook her, her head snapping back and forth. “I think Bella had a little too much fun with you.”

Mad laughter echoed in the dungeon, but Harry saw with alarm that Hermione’s eyes were filled with tears. She wrapped her fingers around the wrist that held her and squeezed, knuckles white with the effort and tendons standing in ridges. “You should never speak of your betters that way, boy. Let go of me!”

Draco grimaced in pain but kept a tight grip on her. “Since I’ve yet to see someone better than me, I’ll speak as I like and I’ll keep you right here. Tell me what you know!” he gritted out between clenched teeth.

An arched eyebrow was the only warning Draco received before he was flung backwards several feet, striking his head on the wall and landing in a heap on the stone floor. “You won’t keep me anywhere.” She stood and brushed herself off. “Weak, traitorous child,” she growled low.

Harry had heard a thud when Draco’s head had hit the wall, but he was evidently still conscious. Blindly reaching for purchase, he grasped an iron ring embedded in the wall and hoisted himself upright, staggering to a standing position. 

“You... how did you…” He blinked a couple of times. “Not possible. I weigh more than you.”

“By several stone,” she deadpanned. She came over to where Draco stood, weaving unsteadily and raised a hand to caress his face. “Poor baby. I don’t even need a wand to defeat you.”

“We’ll see about that,” he muttered, his free hand searching his pockets.

“You have no wand, remember?” she taunted cruelly. “Ministry took ickle Draco’s wand and broke it to itty, bitty bits.”

Draco jerked his head away to remove his face from her fingers, unable to suppress a hiss of pain at the movement. “Don’t touch me, Mudblood filth!”

Hermione lunged at him and wrapped her hands around his throat, murder plain on her face. “You dare call me that?” she shrieked.

“ _Petrificus Totalus_ ,” Snape shouted and Hermione froze, toppling onto her side. It happened so quickly, Harry hadn’t realised that Snape had moved, but suddenly he was out into the main dungeon. The older wizard snagged Draco by the scruff and shook him. “I thought I taught you better than this! Those were poor interrogation skills, indeed.” 

Draco squirmed in his grasp. “Pardon the hell out of me! I’ve just had my skull cracked and two of my fingers broken. I wasn’t exactly worried about getting answers from her, I was trying to stay alive. Next time, you do it!” 

Snape let go of Draco, who clumsily straightened his robes with his good hand and made his way up the steps. The slamming of the gate rang loud in the silence. “ _Finite_ ,” Snape muttered, pointing his wand at Harry.

His muscles ached a bit from being rigid too long, but he was too far beyond livid to care. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t just hand you over to the Aurors for that little stunt you pulled?” he shouted, furious. “You let that stupid git beat her bloody!” He hurried over to where Hermione lay and knelt down to check on her. 

“Draco was in more danger than Miss Granger, I assure you.” Snape ended the _Petrificus_ and Hermione sagged to the floor, unconscious. “As you can see, she is fine.”

“She’s not fine! She’s got a bruise on her cheek, she’s got blood all over her face, and I bet she’ll be sore when she wakes up!”

“Nothing that can’t be healed with the appropriate spells, Potter. Really, you do go on.” Snape levitated Hermione and headed towards the steps, navigating her body carefully before him.

“You can’t treat her like this, Snape!”

Snape paused and gave Harry an amused smirk. “I have and I will. You asked for my help. I am merely obliging.” He disappeared up the stairwell, his ‘charge’ floating in front of him.

“Obliging my arse,” Harry fumed and followed them out of the cellars.

* * *

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Hermione sat huddled on Snape’s bed, wrapped in the duvet, a cup of hot tea in her hand. Just as Snape had said, her injuries were healed as if they had never happened. The injuries inflicted by Draco and Snape’s treatment of Hermione still rankled Harry to the core, though. Her appearance, while not the emaciated-looking body in the dungeons any longer, still had not fully returned to the witch he knew.

She rubbed her forehead. “Tea this morning. Then, something about Ron?”

Harry sighed. “You don’t recall spitting in my face, practically beating the crap out of Malfoy—”

“I hit Draco?” she asked. She seemed rather pleased with herself at this, but quickly sobered at Harry’s glare. “Sorry.”

“You threw him across the room.” There was another thing that bothered him: the incident where Hermione had blatantly enticed Snape with her eyes and the arch of her body. “And you’ve, erm… you’ve been suggestive with Snape.” That part had been difficult to get his head around.

She glanced at Snape and blushed. “Oh, Merlin, I’m so sorry, Professor!”

He waved off her concern. “It’s quite all right, Miss Granger. And please, stop addressing me as ‘professor’. Severus will do.”

“Why does she get to call you Severus and I have to call you Snape?” Harry complained. It was completely unfair, regardless of the fact that he had never truly _asked_ to call Snape anything else. 

Snape and Hermione looked at him oddly. “Perhaps I like her better than I like you,” Snape said wryly. 

Harry stared, jaw slack. “What? Why?” 

“Really, Potter, you are too easily riled,” he said with a snort. He turned to Hermione. “During these _lapses_ , do you feel or see or hear anything?”

She looked pensive for a moment. “Vaguely. It’s as if I’m watching shadows, trying to interact with them, but my words and actions seem… wrong.” She pulled the duvet tighter around her. “Like I’m trapped and can’t control my thoughts.”

Snape made a notation on the parchment in front of him. “Do you have any ideas of what may trigger an episode?”

“Stress, of course,” she answered. She took a sip of tea. “Being around the Weasleys, or Draco, is... difficult. I imagine I’d feel the same about Lucius. And…” She looked away from Snape, blushing even harder. “… you.”

“Interesting.” He scribbled a bit more. “And yet you sit here, calmly speaking with us. Explain.”

“I’d rather not,” she said primly and set her cup on the bedside table. 

“Hermione,” Harry said, exasperated. “We’re trying to help. You need to tell him.” Harry spoke firmly, even though he didn’t really want to know the details.

She looked pained. “Please, Harry. It’s personal.”

“It’s beyond personal at this point, Hermione,” Harry said sternly. “It’s psychotic. Now tell him whatever it is he needs to know.”

“Potter, leave it for now,” Snape cautioned, his gaze narrowed on Hermione. “Pushing her at this time may cause a relapse.”

“But you just said—”

“Leave it.” Snape’s voice was cold and uncompromising.

Harry ran his hands through his messy hair. “Fine. You’re in charge.” He stood up and paced to the end of the room. 

Snape started a slow, deliberate clap, a mocking applause. “Finally. Something has permeated your thick skull.”

Harry heard Hermione muffle a snigger and shot a glare at her. They seemed to have some secret between them, but apparently he wasn’t allowed to know what it was because Snape thought him too stupid. Perhaps that was what hurt the most: that his Potions professor still thought him an idiot, and—worst of all—Hermione seemed to agree. Anger and jealousy left a bitter taste in his mouth as he turned his back on the two of them and made his way to the door. “I need some air.”

“Where are you going?” Hermione asked. She sounded worried now, but he couldn’t forget that seconds ago she’d been laughing at him. 

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” he retorted. 

“Potter…”

Harry whirled around. “What, Snape? Don’t tell me _you_ care where I go!” 

The man’s customary sneer was firmly in place. “I care that you are upsetting Miss Granger.”

“Why do you give a damn?” Harry shouted, finally unable to contain his confusion, anger and frustration. 

Taking in their wide-eyed expressions, he knew he needed to get out of there before he said or did something he would regret. Without another word, he fled the room and was out the door, running down the gravel path to the entrance. Once outside the gate he Disapparated to Grimmauld Place, hurting more than ever with the knowledge that the two people he thought the most of, thought the least of him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excerpts of _The Prince's Tale_ from _The Deathly Hallows_ in this chapter.

He was perched on the window seat in Sirius’ room, the shattered remnants of holly and bits of Phoenix feather carefully assembled on a white cloth which lay between his legs. On the rare occasion when Hermione slept through the night and Harry didn’t, he had sifted through Sirius’ library, reading everything that pertained to wand lore. Most of the sources agreed that it was impossible to repair a broken wand, but they had never taken into account the Deathstick Hallow. Harry glanced at the Elder Wand in his right hand and felt the immense power thrumming through his body. He had found a spell that would hopefully fuse the pieces back together, and if this couldn’t repair his wand, nothing would. 

Biting his lip, he concentrated. “ _Caduceus Reparo_.” 

An intense red light shot forth and surrounded the holly splinters. Harry stared in fascination as the dark wood slowly fused together, encasing the now pristine maroon feather. When the light eventually dimmed and then finally faded altogether, he plucked his wand from the cloth and held it with the same awe he had felt when he had first received it. He swished and flicked, causing the curtains to billow, the bedcovers to straighten themselves, the clutter to be banished. A smile spread across his face; it was perfect, like having an old friend come home after a long journey.

His smile dropped the moment he heard the crack of Apparition. Looking out the window, he watched Snape and Hermione walk through the back garden and heard them enter the kitchen. He sighed and pocketed his wand, prepared to go meet them, but then stopped at the top of the staircase, hearing low murmurs. Head tilted, he tried to discern what was being said, but to no avail; he needed to be closer. He grabbed his invisibility cloak, cast a Silencing and Cushioning Charm on his feet, made his way downstairs and followed the sounds to the library. 

The door was opened a crack, so Harry slid down the wall to sit on the floor, eager to hear everything Snape and Hermione said.

“Drink this, it’s a Calming Draught.” 

Harry heard Hermione groan. “Why? I’m clear-headed at the moment. I feel much better now that we’ve left Malfoy Manor. May I please have my wand back?”

“Drink it, now. I’m going to be asking you some questions and I would prefer not to have to restrain you, or pour Veritaserum down your throat. And no, you may not have your wand back. I feel infinitely safer knowing that I have it.” There was a pause, and Harry smirked at the thought of Hermione squaring off with Snape. “Are you sufficiently soothed, now that you have returned to Potter?” Snape asked, his tone clearly irritated.

“I always feel better when I’m around Harry,” Hermione retorted. “But he worries me, just the same.”

“How so? Though it is beyond even my knowledge to determine why or how, I believe Potter is well-adept at surviving the most catastrophic of events.”

There was a long pause before Hermione answered. “I’m afraid that whatever is happening with me will be too strong for Harry to handle. I can barely control it now, and it’s only getting stronger.”

“Define ‘it’.”

“Don’t you think I would have told you if I knew?” Harry could hear the increasing frustration in her voice. “It feels like I’m being split in two, like all the horrid thoughts I’ve ever had are materialising in front of me because I’m causing them. I’m a danger to those around me. Just being at Malfoy Manor heightened my reactions to everything.”

Harry could hear the scratching of a quill. Snape must be taking more notes. “You stated that certain people or situations trigger a response. Why did you include me in that list? I have not perpetrated any violence against you personally.”

There was no answer for a very long time, and Harry was wondering if they had left again when Hermione’s small voice floated to his ears. 

“In a way, you betrayed me.”

“Betrayed you?” Snape scoffed. “How in Merlin’s name have I betrayed you?”

“It wasn’t consciously,” she assured him. “You never knew, of course. Throughout our school years, when Harry or Ron, or one of the other students would say insulting or rude things about you, I would always point out that you were the expert in your field, that if Dumbledore trusted you then that was tacit proof that we were to trust you as well. Even Professor Lupin defended you against Harry. After Dumbledore... well, after what happened on the Astronomy Tower last year, I felt such betrayal.” Her tone wavered a bit. “I felt guilty and ashamed that I’d defended you all those years and yet you’d turned out just as evil as Harry had predicted.”

“You were meant to think that, Miss Granger. Had you thought otherwise, it would not have been safe for you, nor Potter.”

“But I still have no other way to think. Harry still hasn’t told me why we should trust you, why you’re involved, why you’re helping.”

Snape made no reply, which came as no surprise to Harry. The subject of Snape’s culpability in the events of the past year was a touchy one. Harry didn’t imagine the wizard would want to share it with anyone, especially since Snape hadn’t even shared it with him until he was near death. Figuring this was as good a time as any, he pulled off the cloak, cancelled the spells on his feet, and knocked on the library door. 

“Enter,” Snape said.

He peeked around the corner and gave them both a small smile. “Hey.”

Hermione was sitting on a ratty sofa across from Snape, a patchwork quilt draped around her. “Are you all right, Harry?”

He nodded and came into the room, shutting the door behind him. “Sorry about earlier.” He wasn’t really; he truly had needed to get away from the situation. But if his meagre apology eased the tense atmosphere in the room, all the better.

“Your childish tantrum is already forgotten, Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes as he sat down next to Hermione. “Thanks. The events of last spring are already forgotten as well.”

Snape froze in the middle of his scribbling. He peered intently at Harry. “Careful, Potter.”

Taking a deep breath and hoping he wasn’t about to get his arse hexed, Harry carefully said, “She needs to know why I trust you.”

“Out of the question.”

“Sir, if you just—”

“No! Those memories are _my_ property. I want them returned immediately.” 

“What if I just show her—”

“ _No!_ ” Snape bellowed, livid and panting. For a moment, he looked like a wounded animal, then he collapsed and buried his face in his hands.

Had Harry not seen it with his own eyes, he would have never believed such a thing as he witnessed next. Hermione dropped the quilt that was wrapped around her, slowly went to Snape and knelt down beside him. She laid her hand on top of his head and began tenderly stroking her fingers through his greasy locks. And Snape allowed it. 

“If you don’t want to show me, you don’t have to,” she whispered. “I can tell that whatever it is, it’s painful. I’ll just have to take Harry at his word.”

Snape let his hands drop to dangle between his knees, though he made no move to shift away from her caress. He seemed drained, as if his shouts had been the only barrier he had left, and now that they were done, he was vulnerable. Through the strands of Snape’s hair, Harry could see red blotches on his sallow skin and red-rimmed eyes, though there were no tears. A myriad of uncomfortable feelings assaulted Harry. On one hand, he felt an inclination to do as Hermione was doing and comfort Snape until his agitation passed. On the other, he thought that whatever misery the man was feeling was well-deserved. This brought on another sort of ache at the horrible thought that he could wish Snape ill-will, especially with all that he had done and all that had passed. 

Merlin, he was fucked. 

“Potter,” Snape rasped, his eyes still on the ground and sounding much as he had when Harry had first found him on that table weeks ago. “Do you have Dumbledore’s Pensieve?”

Harry’s eyes widened. Was Snape actually considering letting Hermione view those terrible memories? “It’s still at Hogwarts,” he said cautiously, “but I think I can get McGonagall to let me borrow it.”

“Professor McGonagall,” Snape corrected absentmindedly. “And my memories?”

“I put them in my vault at Gringott’s, so they’d be safe until you told me you wanted them back.” 

Nodding, Snape seemed to approve of this. “Retrieve both, if you would.”

“You don’t have to do this, Severus,” Hermione said quietly.

A little smile twisted Snape’s mouth at the sound of her voice speaking his given name. 

She returned the gesture. “You said to call you Severus,” she reminded him. 

He swallowed heavily and nodded. “I did.” He shifted away from her touch then and slowly rose. “You are incorrect in your assumption, Miss Granger. I need someone other than Potter to view the memories in an unbiased fashion.”

“Hey!” Harry spluttered. “I’m unbiased!”

Snape arched a brow. “Are you?”

Harry’s first thought was that of course he was. Then again, given the content of most of the memories, maybe he wasn’t such a good candidate to be an objective party. Remembering the way Dumbledore had manipulated everyone, he felt a tightening in his stomach, and he firmly decided that no, perhaps it would be better if someone logical like Hermione viewed the memories. 

“Fine,” he said, rising. “I’ll be back this afternoon. It’ll take me that long to go to Hogwarts and Diagon Alley.”

His arms were suddenly full of Hermione, hugging him tightly and stroking his hair like she used to do when she could sense that he was stressed. “Be careful, Harry.”

“Aren’t I always?” he quipped with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

“If your previous exploits were examples of your caution, I expect you not to return at all, Potter,” Snape returned sarcastically. 

“You’d be so lucky,” Harry snarked right back.

Snape looked suitably taken aback while Hermione chuckled. Harry waved them off and left the room, trying to ignore the feeling of impending doom.

* * *

A shallow basin with odd runes and symbols carved around the edge sat on a pedestal in the middle of the sitting room. Snape, Hermione and Harry stood around it. The crystal phial in Harry’s pocket felt heavy as lead. Despite its weight, he had the constant urge to pat down his denims to make sure it was still there. 

“Well, Potter?” Snape said. “Let’s get on with it. Pour them in.”

Harry took the phial from his pocket, removed the delicate stopper and trickled the whitish-blue memories into the viscous fluid, the cloud-like tendrils looking like silvery light made liquid. They swirled lazily in the bowl, beckoning the watchers to take a closer look. 

Snape hesitated a moment, then turned to Harry. “Are you sure you wish to view them again?”

Voldemort rising from the ashes couldn’t keep him from going in again. “Yes, sir.”

Snape gave him a look that clearly questioned his sanity. “Very well.” He looked at Hermione. “Be aware that some of the content is disturbing.” It was all the warning she was given before they clasped hands and dove into Snape’s past.

They fell headlong into sunlight and landed on warm grass. Harry’s heart rose in his throat, nearly suffocating him. He had thought he would be able to handle these visions again, but as he watched the younger version of Snape try to befriend his mother, only to offend her with his spiteful behaviour, he too wanted to run after the little red-headed girl traipsing off in the distance. 

“Harry, is that… your mother?” Hermione asked softly. He could only nod and she squeezed his hand. “And is that… oh, my.” She looked at Snape and gave him a wan smile. “You certainly grew much taller.”

Snape snorted. “Spare me your sanguine attempts to soothe my ego. I was a hideous child who grew into an equally unsightly adult.”

Hermione’s nostrils flared. “I wasn’t attempting to soothe anything. I was merely making an observation. And you’re not hideous. You have classical Roman features and an aquiline nose. Most Muggles have to pay money to look so distinguished… and I’m talking too much again, aren’t I?”

Snape arched a brow in polite disbelief. “Perhaps you should concentrate on what you are _supposed_ to be viewing.”

A sheepish look crossed her face and she returned to watching the interaction between Lily, Snape and Petunia. 

Harry took a gulping breath and forced himself to calm down before he hyperventilated. Hermione leaned against his shoulder in a silent show of support. 

“I’m fine, really,” Harry managed.

Snape gave him a dubious look and then they were thrust abruptly into the next vision. 

They were in a thicket of trees, dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. Two children were lounging on the grass.

_“Does it make a difference, being Muggle-born?” Lily asked._

_The dark-haired boy hesitated, but eventually said, “No. It doesn’t make any difference.”_

Hermione turned to Snape. “Do you still think that way?” she asked curiously.

Snape glanced down at their joined hands. “Make no mistake, Miss Granger. I loathed my Muggle father to the very last breath he took.” He gave her a peculiar look. “But on the whole, Muggle-borns and half-bloods are some of the most powerful in our world. You and Potter are prime examples.”

She seemed to accept that as an answer, and was silent as they were whisked away to Platform nine and three-quarters. Harry watched as his mother pleaded with Aunt Petunia not to think badly of her because she was invited to go to Hogwarts and Petunia was not. He could almost feel Snape’s bitterness growing with every word that Petunia hurled at Lily.

_“Freak! Weirdo!”_

It was nothing he hadn’t heard a thousand times from the very same woman, but seeing it from Snape’s perspective as the insults were inflicted upon his mother, was quite different. It reopened old wounds; ones he thought had at least scabbed over, if not healed. He was glad to leave the memory, but dreaded the one he knew would come next.

They were standing inside a compartment on the Hogwart’s Express, looking at the future Marauders, a young Snape and Lily. 

“Is that…” Hermione trailed off, her eyes widening. “Merlin, you’re all so young.”

_“You’d better be in Slytherin,” young Snape told Lily._

_“Slytherin?” James mocked. “Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?” He nudged Sirius._

_The other boy snorted. “My whole family have been in Slytherin.”_

_“And here I thought you seemed like a decent bloke.”_

_Sirius grinned. “I’ll break the tradition.”_

“Traitor,” Hermione hissed, her eyes narrowed. 

Snape and Harry both looked at each other over her head, worried. Before they could comment, they were transported to Lily and Snape’s sorting. Lucius put a pale hand on Snape’s shoulder when he was inducted into Slytherin, and Harry felt a sudden urge to rip that hand to pieces. He did _not_ want to contemplate that thought process. It was disgusting in his eyes; Lucius was trying to ingratiate himself with Snape even then. 

The scene dissolved into a fight between a much older Snape and Lily. 

_“… thought we were supposed to be friends, best friends?” Snape said._

_“We are, Sev, but I don’t like some of the people you’re hanging around with.”_

Harry watched as his mother argued with Snape, her ire growing the more Snape refused to listen to any criticism of his fellow Slytherins. Harry darted a glance at the older wizard and saw a profound sadness hanging about him. How hard it must have been to see his best friend drifting away—just as Harry felt as he watched Hermione slip further and further from the girl he knew. 

Hermione’s expression now was one of irritation, not sympathy. “If she knew James Potter was an arrogant toerag, why did she end up marrying him?”

Harry had often wondered the same thing.

“I could not see beyond my obsession for her, for power and vengeance,” Snape murmured. “I did not realise my mistake until it was too late.”

That ‘mistake’ was where the Pensieve took them next. 

_“Mudblood!”_

Hermione’s sharp inhalation vibrated through them all. “But I thought you…”

“Remember what you did to Ron when you were hacked off with him last year because of Lavender?” Harry asked with a squeeze of his hand. 

She looked away but nodded. “I really hated him at that moment.”

“Him… or her?”

“I don’t know. Both, maybe.” She shrugged and returned her gaze to watch Snape pleading with Lily to hear him out as they stood at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower. After a moment she looked over at Snape, who was riveted to the scene. “Had you ever called her Mudblood before?”

He shook his head, his eyes never leaving the slender red-haired figure. “Never. It was the only time. I hadn’t even thought about it, really, her blood status. To me, she was just Lily.”

“Then why did you say it?”

He blinked furiously, as if trying to dispel moisture from his eyes. “As Potter reminded you, one does foolish things in the heat of the moment. Unfortunately, my younger self lacked the self-control that I have had to learn in the years since. I was humiliated and furious, and I lashed out at the one who dared to get too close.”

“Lily,” she said softly. The rest of the devastating scene played out. Before they were swept away to the next memory, Hermione turned to Snape and said in a confident tone, “I think, if you were my friend, I would have forgiven you.”

Harry pursed his lips to keep from smiling. There was the Hermione he knew and loved; the one who cared for and fought for the unloved, the unforgiven, the unwanted. He noticed the stunned look on Snape’s face. He imagined that same look had been on his own face when Hermione had saved them time and again. It was truly priceless to see his autocratic Potions professor so nonplussed. 

The next scene, however, changed the mood dramatically. 

Harry had known, of course, that Snape had told Voldemort of the Prophecy, or the part of it he had heard, but that didn’t make it any easier to witness what Snape had been willing to do to save his mother.

_“If she means so much to you,” said Dumbledore, “surely Lord Voldemort will spare her? Could you not ask for mercy for the mother, in exchange for the son?”_

_“I have! I have asked him,” Snape assured him._

_“You disgust me!” Dumbledore thundered._

Watching this made Harry feel sick at heart. He hated Snape very much in that moment, hated that he would willingly have sacrificed a child to keep the woman he loved safe. Harry saw the same horror etched on Hermione’s face and the older Snape, like the younger one, seemed to shrink in on himself in shame. Good. He should be. Harry’s heart hardened a little and he was glad of it.

_“Hide them all, then,” Snape croaked. “Keep her—them—safe. Please!”_

_Dumbledore stroked his long beard, a calculating look in his piercing blue eyes. “And what will you give me in return, Severus?”_

_“In—in return? Anything!”_

Despite his seesawing emotions, Harry felt a chill at seeing again the pivotal moment where Severus Snape signed away his soul. 

The hilltop faded and loud wails filled their ears as they landed in Dumbledore’s office. The younger version of Snape was slumped over in a chair, sobbing his heart out. The sound was terrible, as loud as the bell of a clock tower and resonating just as harshly.

Harry heard a minute sniff and turned to see Hermione’s eyes full of tears. “So much pain,” she whispered. 

Snape’s eyes were closed, his body wincing as the feverish pitch rose. 

_“I thought… you were going… to keep her… safe?”_

_Dumbledore, looking grim, slowly walked around the chair where Snape sat. “She and James put their faith in the wrong person. Rather like you, Severus. Weren’t you hoping that Lord Voldemort would spare her?”_

The words, if not the tone, were taunting. Harry heard a loud sniff and saw Hermione shake her head. “That’s cruel.”

“I know,” he answered. 

_“Her boy survives. He has her eyes, precisely her eyes,” Dumbledore went on, implacably, mercilessly. “You remember the shape and colour of Lily Evans’ eyes, I am sure?”_

_“Don’t!” Snape bellowed._

“That’s horrible!” Hermione said with a gasp. She turned to Snape, who was three shades paler than usual. “I thought… I thought he cared for you, even just a little?”

“Oh, he cared,” Snape said, bitterness dripping from his words. “About placing chess pieces on the board where they would work to his advantage. I was to be bishop to Potter’s King—gaining strength towards the endgame, influencing both sides simultaneously. A strategic weapon in the form of a long-term threat.”

 _“You know how and why she died, Severus. Make sure it was not in vain. Help me protect Lily’s son,” Dumbledore cajoled._

Harry swallowed heavily. So wrong. All of it, wrong. To be manipulated into literally giving up your life to keep another safe. 

“He’s using you,” Hermione murmured, as if taking the thought directly from Harry’s head.

“I know,” Snape said, resigned. “But I allowed him to do so. My guilt opened the door.”

_“The Dark Lord will return, and Harry Potter will be in terrible danger when he does,” the ancient wizard warned._

_Snape’s curled figure slowly rose from the chair, coughed a few times and ran his fingers through the dirty strands of his hair. “Very well. But never,_ never _tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us! Swear it!”_

_Dumbledore gave him a sly look. “My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you?” He shrugged as if it were no matter. “If you insist…”_

“Thank you,” Harry whispered to Snape. “I know you didn’t want to, but I’m grateful that you did.” He felt a sense of relief at finally saying the words.

Snape did not respond as they were whisked to the next memory, where they heard him describe first-year Harry to Dumbledore. It wasn’t at all flattering, but then Harry had never expected Snape to spout praise about anyone who wasn’t a Slytherin. 

_“Keep an eye on Quirrell, won’t you?” Dumbledore said, as he turned a page in_ Transfiguration Today Quarterly.

Harry felt afresh the aptness of Snape’s analogy. It had all been a chess game between Dumbledore and Voldemort, with Dumbledore seeing more moves ahead than any of them.

“Meddling bastard,” Hermione muttered, her hand squeezing Harry’s to the point of pain.

“Miss Granger,” Snape warned, “I think we should—”

But they were already thrust into the next scene.

_“Karkaroff intends to flee if the Mark burns.”_

_“Does he?” Dumbledore mused softly. “And are you tempted to join him?”_

_“No, I am not such a—”_

“Coward,” Hermione sing-songed, a low maniacal laugh rumbling in her chest. 

“Hermione,” Harry cautioned, dread rising in him at this fresh evidence of the change in her. The effects of the Calming Draught she’d taken earlier must be wearing off. “Calm down, please?”

“Potter, I suggest we view the rest at a later time,” Snape said, giving Hermione a dubious look. “She should be dosed again before—”

_“It carries a curse, surely you realised that. Why even touch it?”_

_“I… was a fool. Sorely tempted…”_

_“Tempted by what?”_

“The Dark Lord’s ring!” Hermione gasped, a feral gleam in her eyes. She turned to Snape with a sneer. “As if you hadn’t had enough evidence that he wasn’t all virtue and purity!” she spat. “Tell him, Snape. Tell him why Dumbledore was so tempted!”

Instead of answering, Snape looked at Harry. “We need to leave.”

They rose up out of the Pensieve, but as soon as they landed in the sitting room, Hermione jerked her hands away from both him and Snape so forcefully that she staggered a bit. Gaining her balance, she sent Snape a nasty smirk, grabbed hold of the basin, and dashed it against the wall.

“No!” Snape roared, as the bowl shattered from the impact. The liquid—and the memories—pooled on the floor, slipping through the cracks in the floorboards. 

“ _Accio_ Snape’s memories!” Harry yelled, trying to siphon the ephemeral strands into the original phial.

It was like pulling long, stringy drops of honey through a sieve. Some returned to the phial, but the majority of them disappeared, slithering through the fissures into darkness. Snape fell to the floor and clawed at the boards, splintering the wood and bloodying his fingers, mad with desperation to retrieve the slowly vanishing memories.

“Snape… Severus!” He held the older wizard by the shoulders. “You’re going to hurt yourself. I’ll find them, don’t worry.” He hoped he was telling the truth. He would have to tear apart the cellar of the house, but if it resulted in even one memory being restored, it was worth it.

“Don’t worry?” Snape snarled, his face contorted in a fierce mask. He jerked himself out of Harry’s grasp and rose to his feet. 

Hermione’s unhinged laughter filled the air. “Poor ickle Snape… so sad he didn’t get to deflower his _Lily_!”

Snape whirled around, robes flaring about him. He advanced on Hermione and seized the fabric of her blouse in his fist, pushing her up against the wall. He leaned in close, his hooked nose brushing her cheek.

“You have no concept of what I felt for her,” he grated.

“Snape, let her go.” Harry aimed the Elder Wand at Snape. There was no telling what either of them might do at this point. Both were ready to detonate like the next card in a game of Exploding Snap. “Now.”

Hermione was grinning maniacally, and Harry wondered if she comprehended anything at all at this point. Her wild shifts of mood meant that he was never certain whether he was talking to his best friend or some alien creature impersonating her. Because Snape refused to move, he couldn’t get a clear shot to incapacitate her, and he briefly contemplated stunning them both just to ease the tense atmosphere. If he could only aim his spell a little to the left…

Suddenly Hermione was kissing Snape full on the mouth. Shocked beyond belief, Harry’s wand arm dropped to his side, while Snape appeared equally dumbfounded. Both of them paid for their lapse in judgement.

When the _Petrificus Totalus_ hit Harry, he cursed himself mentally at his own stupidity. Snape, no doubt, was cursing just as silently on the other side of the room, though Harry’s unmoving position meant he wasn’t visible. Harry wondered if they were both still too trusting of Hermione—in her current state, she would try to lure them in with any means necessary so she could snatch back her wand. 

Hermione sauntered over and sat heavily on Harry’s stomach, a malicious smile firmly in place. “Stupid boy,” she said, and bounced a little for good measure. His breath would have been whooshing from his lungs had his body not been frozen.

She leaned over and smiled sweetly at him, patting his cheek. “Do you really think you can keep me drugged forever?” She caressed his brow and then traced his faded scar. “If you hadn’t had help from your friends and that traitor over there,” she nodded in Snape’s direction, “you wouldn’t have been able to defeat the Dark Lord. Now that you have no friends, and that pathetic coward can’t even stand to look at you without remembering the woman he wanted to fuck, what makes you think you can stop me?” 

Harry wanted to scream for Hermione to remember him, to remember who she really was, but the witch who had stayed by his side, whose loyalty had sustained him through it all, was nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t Hermione looking at him, in that strange, sideways manner that made him nauseous. He could feel the bile inching its way up his throat as she danced her fingers down his right arm and plucked his wand from his nerveless hand.

Hermione waved the Elder Wand in front of his face. “What have we here?” she asked in a high-pitched voice. “Oh!” she gasped in mock surprise, her eyes alight with desire. “I believe this was Dumbledore’s, wasn’t it?” She ran the tip of the wand across his forehead, tracing his scar. “What’s that old Muggle saying? ‘An eye for an eye’…”

The spell pierced his skull, as if it were being split in two. He screamed silently at the agony ripping through his mind, the intensity as fierce as Fiendfyre. It continued for what felt like hours, and he was sure he was going to die right then and there. Nothing existed except the pain...

So all-consuming was the agony that he was unaware when the spell released its hold and someone was calling his name.

“Potter? Potter!” He felt a light tap to his cheeks. “Are you damaged?”

Damaged? He felt as though is brain was liquefied. “Unngggh,” was all he could muster.

“Articulate as always, I see.”

Harry blinked slowly, trying to focus. “Hermione,” he rasped. Snape’s face came into focus, his expression worried. He hated it when Snape looked worried; it always meant their world had gone to hell in a very short span of time. And the man’s next words confirmed it. 

“She’s gone. And she took the Elder Wand.” He sat back in disgust. “How many times have I warned you to keep that blasted thing hidden? Do you know how many wizards and witches would not hesitate to kill you to obtain it? No, of course you don’t, hence the catastrophic mess we are now presented with. Foolish, irresponsible, impertinent, imbecilic—”

“Don’t forget determined rule-breaker,” Harry grunted with a lop-sided grin as he tried to sit up. “And dunderhead.”

Snape pursed his lips. “You find humour in the fact that Miss Granger has absconded with the Elder Wand while in the throes of a psychotic episode, thus endangering everyone she comes in contact with?”

“Must you shout?” Harry’s head hurt too much to think.

“Get up,” Snape said. He didn’t wait for Harry to comply but gripped his arm and pulled him upright. Harry must have looked quite green because he glimpsed a brief flash of concern in Snape’s black gaze. “Can you Apparate?”

Harry swallowed several times before he was sure he wasn’t going to vomit. He nodded, and retrieved his old holly wand, irritated with himself for not getting rid of the Elder Wand sooner. He muttered, “ _Corpore Sano_ ,” hoping it would at least ease the queasiness. “Where are we going?”

“Back to Malfoy Manor. I need to consult with Lucius before we attempt to track her movements.”

Though his head was still extremely foggy, Harry remembered what Ginny had said earlier. “Isn’t Kingsley head of the Order now?”

Snape frowned. “What does that have to do with the current situation?”

“Just tell me.”

“The Order has been disbanded, but I believe yes, Shacklebolt was the last known leader after Moody disappeared.”

Harry rubbed his temples. “Then we need to see him. Ginny told me that her father said something about Tracking Charms on me, Ron and Hermione, and that only the head of the Order knows how to activate them. We can find Hermione that way.”

Snape looked pained for a moment. “Do you know when they were placed?”

“Yeah,” Harry said softly. “Just before Sirius died in the Department of Mysteries.”

Snape nodded. He looked as if he was about to say something more, which Harry didn’t think he could handle right at the moment, so when the man remained silent he was oddly grateful. He didn’t resist when Snape took his arm and Apparated them to the gates of Malfoy Manor.

The scene that greeted them, however, was far from comforting. Flames were shooting from one wing of the manor house, casting a sinister red glow on the gardens. They could hear breaking glass and numerous shouts and cries from somewhere ahead.

“Quickly,” Snape shouted and pulled Harry past the Manor wards that kept out unwanted visitors.

They ran up the drive and blasted open the doors with a hasty _Confringo_. Smoke immediately engulfed them as it billowed out. Snape cast a Bubble-Head Charm. Harry quickly following suit, and the two made their way inside, searching for any inhabitants. Bodies of several house-elves littered the corridors, and as they rounded the main staircase a deep-throated, blood-curdling roar resounded from above, causing Harry to come to an abrupt halt. He’d heard that sound before, in the Room of Requirement. Had Draco been stupid enough to cast Fiendfyre again, and in his own home? 

The answer came immediately, as a wall of living fire circled the stairs and leapt towards them, jaws gaping wide.

“ _Aguamenti_!” Harry and Snape cried in unison, and a tidal wave flowed from their wands.

All their power was thrust upon the fiery serpent, thrashing and sizzling as it fought to break through the wall of water. Steam rose thick from the confluence, and behind the hissing they could hear screams and shouts issuing from the other side of the manor. Harry was desperate to find out whom or what was causing them, but he didn’t want to leave Snape to extinguish the Fiendfyre on his own. 

The decision was taken out of his hands. “I have this under control, Potter. Find the Malfoys!”

He hesitated but Snape stepped in front of him and yelled at him again to go. Deciding not to push his luck, Harry lowered his wand and ran towards the wing from where the screams had originated.

He reached the end of the hall and was turning left when a muffled cry sounded from the opposite direction. Cautiously, he slowly opened the third door on the right, wand at the ready… and then promptly wished he hadn’t.

The room was a study in blood splatters. A figure lay sprawled on its back across a bed, long blond hair hanging over the side, streaked with crimson. Harry looked closer and his previous nausea returned.

Lucius Malfoy, arms spread wide in an obscene parody of flight, lay in a pool of his own blood. A snake’s-head dagger protruding from his chest pushed Harry’s stomach over the edge, and he vomited on the floor. 

An unearthly laugh brought Harry to his senses. “I’m so upset you don’t like the changes I’ve made, Harry.”

Harry wiped his mouth and looked around to see Draco lying motionless on the floor, Hermione sitting on his stomach as she had earlier with Harry. She held another silver dagger in her hand, poised to strike the same killing blow on the younger Malfoy as she had on his father. 

Try as he might, Harry could not reconcile this _thing_ that wore his friend’s shape with the Hermione Granger he knew and loved. He sank to his knees, careless of the tears that spilled down his cheeks. He had run out—of options and of time—and now that she looked to be responsible for Lucius Malfoy’s death, he was sure the Ministry would not be far behind in searching for her. 

Harry aimed his wand at Hermione, his hand trembling. “Put down the dagger, Hermione,” he managed, his voice gravelly. “And come to me.”

“You didn’t ask nicely,” she taunted, running her tongue across her half-open lips. “You’ll have to cast an Unforgivable on me, and we both know you won’t be able to, Harry. You have to mean it for it to work.”

The hairs on his neck rose. He was about to tell her that he wouldn’t have a problem meaning it, not now, when the mocking expression on her face turned to one of fury. She stood and backed away as Harry turned to see Snape hurl a spell her way, which she blocked effortlessly.

“Move, Potter!” 

Harry dodged the next curse that shot past his shoulder and watched as Hermione blocked it, and the next, and the next. As Snape and Hermione began to duel in earnest, he crawled over to Draco and pulled him out of the room. He was a bloody mess; lacerations and bruises covered his face and exposed torso, his skin colder and even paler than usual. Pressing two fingers just under his jaw, Harry was relieved to feel a weak pulse. 

“Saved your arse twice in as many months,” Harry groused. “You owe me, Malfoy.”

Behind him Harry heard a strangled yelp that went straight through his heart and he turned to see Snape holding his left bicep, Hermione poised to issue another attack. He didn’t think, and later when he tried to recall what happened in the next moments, he was unable to say what made him do it.

“ _Crucio_!”

Hermione dropped to the floor screaming, her body arched so rigidly Harry thought her back might break.

Snape slumped against the wall, exhaustion plain in his face. “End it, Potter,” he panted. 

Harry heard the words faintly, as if from far away. The power was coursing through him, pouring into Hermione… and he was enjoying it. He wanted her to suffer, to pay for all the misery she had put them through, wanted to punish her for—

“Potter! Stop!”

The spell cut off abruptly and Hermione sagged to the ground, unconscious. He watched, feeling nothing, as Snape slowly went over and began searching her person, finally to snag something from her beneath her thigh. 

“She’s all right,” Snape said, frowning. “Here.” He rose and handed Harry the Elder Wand. “Bind her while I check on Draco.”

Snape swept past him and Harry went to Hermione and knelt down beside her. His eyes widened at the unmistakable changes. Her brown hair was almost black now, full of corkscrew curls in wild disarray. Her features, usually warm and sun-kissed, were gaunt and dark. He was so caught up in his examination of her that he forgot Snape’s order to bind her.

Cold fingers suddenly wrapped around his neck, tightened, making him see spots before his eyes. He tried to rasp out a Full Body Bind but he couldn’t speak. Hermione gave him a slow, menacing smile, withdrew the Elder Wand from Harry’s back pocket, then abruptly released him and Disapparated. 

He took gulps of air, rubbing his abused throat. “Fuck,” he wheezed, rolling onto his stomach. 

He was hauled to his feet by a tight grip on the back of his shirt. “Still haven’t managed to cast non-verbal spells, eh, Potter?” A look of disbelief morphed Snape’s features. “She took the wand again, didn’t she? Isn’t that what got you into trouble last time?” 

Harry twisted in Snape’s grip until he could see the older man. They were both covered in black smudges from ash, soot and smoke. “Piss off,” Harry said hoarsely. “How’s Draco?”

“He’ll live.” Snape let go of Harry and moved over to where Lucius lay, his sightless eyes staring into the void. He reached out and gently closed the lids. “The Ministry will be searching for her now. Not only were the Malfoys stripped of their wands, they were also under almost constant surveillance, so her actions will have been noted.”

“We have to find her before they do.” The Ministry would seize her and treat her like a common criminal, asking questions only after she had already been condemned by the media, making it that much harder to explain everything that had happened. 

Snape nodded. “Can you arrange a private meeting between the two of us and Shacklebolt? I’d prefer not to set foot in the Ministry if I can avoid it.”

“Give me half an hour.” Harry rolled his shoulders, feeling the stress relax slightly, and gave Snape an entreating look. “Do you think... can you can help her, once we do find her?”

Rubbing his thumb along his jaw, Snape hesitated for a moment. “I believe… that the answer lies here, in the Manor. She does seem rather volatile when in proximity to the location. Perhaps once Draco is conscious, he can shed some light on the matter.” 

“I hope so,” Harry muttered. “I really don’t want to go on another camping trip.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was nearly three in the morning by the time Harry—freshly cleaned of all the blood and grime of the past few hours—stood in front of Kingsley Shacklebolt’s home at Sixteen Wilton Crescent, in Belgravia, London. It had once been the home of the late Sir Percy Loraine, Baronet—a British diplomat, its location perfectly situated for access to Buckingham Palace and Downing Street, both integral to Kingsley’s work with the Muggle government. Showing up at the Ministry would have been a waste of time; only the Aurors on duty that night would have been there, and Harry was sure they would have tried to detain him rather than help.

Snape had taken Draco back to Grimmauld Place, knowing St. Mungo’s might do Malfoy more harm than good. He also planned to look for more of the spilled memories. Harry hoped that the house wouldn’t be torn to shreds by the time he returned, but given how obsessed Snape was with Lily, it didn’t bode well. 

Light shone out into the dark night as the door was opened by one of Kingsley’s staff.

“What do you want?” the man gruffly asked. Harry was reminded of a cleaner-looking version of Filch.

“I need to see Minister Kingsley,” he said, unable to hide the irritation in his voice. It had been a long day and an even longer night, and he was exhausted.

“Make an appointment tomorrow!” The man slammed the door in his face.

Harry stared at the door. “This is ridiculous. _Expecto Patronum_!” 

The stag burst forth from the tip of his wand and pawed at the ground, waiting. Harry told it to go only to Kingsley Shacklebolt and tell him that it was an emergency, that he had to see the Minister right now and that he was waiting outside. With a toss of its antlered head the stag bounded off, mounting the air in the direction of the third story of the house.

Several moments passed, and then Harry heard voices raised in heated argument. The front door suddenly opened, and a dishevelled Kingsley stood in the dim light, looking thoroughly exasperated. 

“Sorry about that, Harry. Grimsby is highly effective as my personal guard.” Kingsley looked at the grizzled man over his shoulder. “Perhaps too effective. Come in, my boy.”

Harry entered the opulent residence and followed Kingsley to a reception room that boasted intricate parquet wood flooring and a marble fireplace. Even though the Black and Potter fortune combined was enough to see Harry comfortable for years, he felt decidedly uncomfortable in the presence of so much wealth. It made Grimmauld Place look like a Hippogriff pen. 

“Sit, Harry, sit,” Kingsley urged and pointed him to a chair. He leaned out into the hallway to shout, “Grimsby! Tea!” then settled himself into a leather chair. “Now tell me, what could not wait for morning?”

Harry debated briefly whether to tell the Minister all that had happened to Hermione, but then decided that the less everyone knew about what she was going through, the better. “I need you to activate the Tracking Charm that was placed on Hermione in our fifth year.”

Kingsley sat back in his chair and studied Harry. “How did you know I would be able to do such a thing?”

“Does that really matter?”

“One does not just stumble across such information, especially sensitive information like this.”

Harry leaned forward. “Look, I know there’s one on Ron and me as well. I want those removed.”

“But not Hermione’s,” Kingsley said with an arched brow. 

“No. We need to track her.”

“ _We_?”

Damn. Harry was so sleep-deprived that he was blurting out things he shouldn’t. “I’ve hired a private detective,” he said, improvising.

Kingsley gave him a sly look. “Arthur told me about Snape, Harry. Says he kidnapped Hermione. Where is he? Is that why you want me to activate the charm? To find him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Harry shifted uneasily in his chair; lying had never been his forte. 

“Harry, Snape is an enigma. His loyalties are still in question. Now, I heard what you said to Voldemort, that Snape was Dumbledore’s man until the end. That is the _only_ reason I haven’t pushed the Aurors to bring him in. Most of the public believes he belongs in prison, you know.”

Harry was on his feet in an instant. “I won’t let you put him in Azkaban!” he ground out.

Kingsley narrowed his eyes. “The longer he remains free, the more of a threat he poses.”

“To whom? To you? The Ministry? The public?” Harry scoffed. “Do you know what he’s been doing this whole time? Recovering. That’s it. He hasn’t hexed anyone, he hasn’t been performing illegal Dark magic, and he hasn’t tried to leave the country, even though you lot burnt his house down.”

“I know nothing about that, Harry,” Kingsley said with a hint of a warning in his voice. “The investigation labelled it an accident.”

“Accident my arse!” Harry paced, fuming. How could Kingsley be so blind? And why was he focused on Snape when Harry was asking for his help regarding Hermione? It was almost like dealing with Fudge all over again. The thought made his blood run cold. “Take the Tracking Charm off me. Now.”

Kingsley gave him a shrewd look. “Are you sure you want me to do that? It would be helpful if, shall we say, you were kidnapped by Snape.”

Though he was known for doing rash things in the heat of the moment, Harry _had_ learned a thing or two from Snape in the past few weeks. “You’re only acting Minister right now, aren’t you, Kingsley? Not elected Minister, at least not until next May.”

“What of it?” Kingsley asked cautiously.

Placing his hands behind his back, Harry slowly walked back and forth. “I don’t think it would look very good to your, ah, constituents if they knew that you condemned a war hero, spied on me and let others suffer because you refused to take action.”

Kingsley stared at him blankly for a moment before breaking into laughter. “Blackmail, Harry? You really have been spending too much time with Snape, though you’re still not very proficient at coercion. And I’m not spying on you. The charm is not activated at the moment and in fact has only a one-time use.” 

“Having the _capability_ to trace me is spying, Minister!”

Kingsley sighed. “People aren’t to blame for what they _might_ do, only what they have done.”

Did he have to be so smug about it? “I could always use the Imperius Curse to make you take it off me.”

That seemed to earn Kingsley’s attention. “Careful where you tread, Harry. People have ended up in Azkaban for less.”

Fists clenched, Harry spat, “Then remove the bloody charm!” 

Lips pursed, Kingsley studied Harry for a long moment, then nodded. Withdrawing his wand, the Minister slowly waved it in an intricate pattern as he whispered a spell, his voice too low for Harry to hear. When he stopped, Harry felt an odd lightness, as though a burden he hadn’t known he was carrying had vanished. 

“Ron’s too?” Harry added.

Kingsley nodded again. “I removed Mr. Weasley’s at the same time as yours, though Miss Granger’s remains in effect. Tell me, why do you need to track her?”

He really didn’t want to tell Kingsley what had happened, but the Minister would soon be informed as to the state of the Malfoys, father and son. “Can you alter the charm so that it can act as a sort of compass instead of just working once?”

“Of course. But first you must tell me why,” Kingsley said. “I will not act blindly, not even for you.”

Harry sighed and dropped back into his chair. “Hermione hasn’t been… well, herself lately, not since the final battle.”

“What happened?”

“That’s just it, I don’t know. One moment we’re running through Hogwarts and then… I don’t know how to describe it. It was like she was someone else completely.” Harry picked at a stray thread on his jeans. “She wasn’t my Hermione.”

Kingsley was silent for several minutes, deep in thought, when they were interrupted by the door crashing open.

“Minister, come quick!” Grimsby stammered. “Emergency Floo-call from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement!”

Kingsley shot a piercing gaze at Harry. “Do you know what this is about, Potter?”

Harry’s mind floundered. It could have been any number of things at this point—the death of Lucius, the near-destruction of Malfoy Manor, the faux kidnapping of Hermione by Snape. Or maybe some entirely disastrous new event had taken place in the short time he had been gone. 

Apparently taking Harry’s silence as a negative, Kingsley left the room, and Harry was keenly aware of the ominous ticking of the grandfather clock near the entrance to the receiving parlour. Every sharp click of movement was like a herald of something horrible, and panic was welling in Harry’s chest by the time the gong sounded half-past the hour. 

When Kingsley entered the room a few minutes later, his face was grim and his demeanour had lost all trace of friendliness. “Harry, you have one minute to tell me why I shouldn’t throw you all in Azkaban!”

Oh, Merlin. What now? “Uhm, sir?” He got to his feet and wiped his sweaty palms on the legs of his jeans.

“That was Arthur Weasley. He told me that Hermione Granger was caught trying to steal certain items from the Ministry that had been confiscated in a prior sweep of Malfoy Manor, which I might add, was practically burned to the ground this evening, along with the death of Lucius Malfoy.” He waved his wand over himself and his dressing gown changed into his formal Ministerial robes. “She’s in a holding cell in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but she’s telling the Aurors that you and Snape have been holding her prisoner in Grimmauld Place!”

“What?” Harry was indignant, but somehow not surprised. “We’ve done no such thing!” He ran his hands through his hair. He’d soon have no hair at all left from the stress. “Look, I really think you should activate that Tracking Charm on her and enhance it to trace her continuously.” 

Kingsley snorted as he donned his trademark hat. “Of the three of you, she has always been the more truthful. I’m inclined to believe what she has to say. Come with me.”

Harry felt a familiar sucking sensation behind his navel and a moment later was standing with Kingsley in the lobby of the Ministry. They quickly bypassed the witch at the reception desk and headed for the lifts.

“Level eleven,” Kingsley said. 

The lift whisked backwards and dropped; Harry had to fight the urge to be sick, both from the sudden movement and anxiety over what they might encounter once they arrived. 

“Level eleven—Ministry Detention Area,” said the cheery voice.

The lift gate slid open and Harry and Kingsley stepped out into a dark-tiled area with circular corridors coming off it like spokes of a wheel. Each corridor was lined with cells protected by gilded gates. 

Arthur was there to greet them. “Ah, Kingsley. Thank you for coming. Hello, Harry,” he added gravely. 

“Sir,” Harry said with a nod.

Arthur turned and led the two of them to cell seven. Looking through the bars of the gate, Harry saw Hermione sitting on a bench of polished granite, her feet dangling over the edge. Gone were her blood-soaked Muggle clothes. Instead she wore a grey dress, so dark it was almost black, with silver buttons up the front of the skirt. The hemline was so short in the front it exposed her knees and so long in the back, it brushed her ankles. The bodice had the same silver buttons; slender straps held it on her shoulders, while her arms were covered with a black fabric so thin it was transparent. Her calves were covered by black leather boots, complete with silver eyelets and black laces from toe to knee. Her hair, though darker and wilder than ever, was done up in a sloppy chignon, tendrils flying around her face. 

She looked… stunning. This was not the same woman he had cursed earlier in the evening, it couldn’t be. When she raised her head to look at him, however, the visceral reaction that spread through him at her sensual gaze had nothing to do with disbelief: it was all centred in his groin.

“Harry,” she purred. “You came.”

Shifting uncomfortably to one side, the hardness of his shaft suggested that yes, he just might. “Hermione,” he swallowed. A hand on his shoulder startled him.

“We’ve determined that she didn’t actually take anything from the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects,” Arthur said. “But, she did cause quite a mess and claims that you and Severus have kept her—against her wishes, mind you—at Grimmauld Place.”

Harry shook his head. “She’s been staying with me for weeks, Mr. Weasley, you know that.”

Arthur hesitated. “That’s true, Harry, but perhaps Severus is forcing her to—”

“No,” Harry said vehemently. Barring the episode where Hermione destroyed the Pensieve and Snape went a bit mad, Snape had never touched Hermione violently or inappropriately. He gave Arthur a hard look. “You _know_ Snape would never hurt Hermione… or me.” He didn’t know what kind of game Hermione was playing, but there was no way he would let Snape take the fall for it. “Where is her wand?”

“She told us Snape has it, that he took it from her,” Arthur said. “She doesn’t have one on her.”

Harry turned to look at Hermione. Her head was tilted, studying him inquisitively. “That’s a lie; she does have one on her. I can feel it.” Kingsley and Arthur exchanged a look but Harry didn’t care. “Search her again.”

“Harry, they’ve already—”

“Do it!” 

Kingsley sighed and signalled to two wizards standing on either side of the cell. “Savage, Dawlish. Please scan Miss Granger again for an unauthorised wand.”

Both men nodded to the Minister, opened the gate and proceeded inside, wands raised high. 

The men took up positions on either side of their prisoner and waved their wands over Hermione’s person, not really paying attention to her, only to what their scan revealed. Savage’s wand hit on something around her waist and Dawlish moved in to confirm it. The moment he was within reach Hermione grabbed Dawlish by his wrist and yanked him off balance. She landed a well-aimed kick to Savage’s groin with her pointed boot, and Savage howled with pain and dropped to the floor, writhing. She spun Dawlish around in front of her and locked her legs over the man’s waist from behind, trapping him. She then plucked his wand out of his grasp and pressed it against his temple.

Arthur and Kingsley had their wands out and aimed at her, but they made no move to enter the cell. 

“Tell them how proficient I am with _Obliviate_ , Harry,” Hermione taunted.

Harry slipped his wand from his jeans pocket but did not raise it. If past experience was any guide, talking with Hermione would get him further than overt hostility. “Hermione’s the best,” he said to the two wizards. “If you don’t want Dawlish reduced to the mentality of a newt, you’d better listen to her.”

“Miss Granger, lower your wand,” Kingsley warned, not heeding Harry’s words. 

“Shall I?” she asked sweetly. “I will, but just remember, you told me to do it.” She lowered the wand and pointed it at Savage, still panting on the floor. “ _Sectumsempra_!”

Long gashes appeared on the wizard’s body and face as his screams resounded in the small cell. Harry mentally cursed the day he had told Hermione of that hex back in Sixth Year; she had kept pestering him about the spell he had used on Malfoy and he’d finally told her. He would’ve attempted a counter-curse, but Snape had never taught him the melody he had sung to heal Draco’s injuries, and he was afraid anything else might make things worse. 

Kingsley and Arthur advanced slowly into the cell, a Shield Charm in place to protect them. Harry had a sick feeling that it wouldn’t do any good. Gripping his wand tightly, he raised it. “Hermione, you need to let Dawlish go.” He nodded at the older wizards. “They’ll hurt you if you don’t.”

Hermione pouted. “Oh, Harry.” She kissed the side of Dawlish’s cheek. “Poor deluded Harry. Doesn’t know whether he wants to fuck me or Snape.” She laughed to herself. “Maybe both. Or did you want a taste of that ginger honey that—”

“Shut up!” Harry’s wand hand trembled. He willed away the anger, humiliation and confusion that were clawing their way through him. She might be having a psychotic episode—she certainly wasn’t well—so how could she have known? So mired was he in his own conflict that he failed to notice that Kingsley had advanced further into the cell than was safe.

“ _Incarcerous_!” Kingsley yelled.

“No!” Harry shouted, but it was too late. 

Hermione deftly snapped Dawlish’s neck and threw him in the path of Kingsley’s Binding Spell, the body falling on top of Savage, who was still bleeding profusely. She withdrew the Elder Wand from the pocket of her dress and gave Harry a wink and a mad grin.

“ _Confundo_!” Harry shouted, hoping it would stop her from Disapparating again 

The spell hit her just as she disappeared.

“How in Merlin’s name did she get past the anti-Apparition spells?” Kingsley thundered. 

Silence reigned for a moment before Savage cried out as another gash appeared across his forehead. 

“Get Savage to St. Mungo’s,” Kingsley muttered to Arthur. “I’ll inform Dawlish’s family.”

Arthur nodded, picked up Savage’s limp form and dragged him out of the cell, leaving a disturbingly large pool of blood on the floor of the cell. Kingsley shook his head wearily, then shot Harry a speculative look. “Arthur searched her himself, Harry. How did you know she had a wand?”

Harry was still in a state of shock, staring at the spot Hermione had recently vacated. 

“Harry!” Kingsley snapped. “Is this why you wanted the Tracking Charm on Hermione activated?”

Nodding numbly, Harry swayed a bit. Time to tell them the really bad news. “Minister, she doesn’t have just a wand. She has the Elder Wand,” he whispered. 

“What?” Kingsley bit out. “How did she get hold of it? I thought you told us you were going to take care of it.”

Harry mopped his face with his hand. “She stunned me and took it.”

Kingsley gave him a look that clearly said, ‘and you defeated the Dark Lord?’ “Well, that changes things. We’ll send out the best Aurors—”

“No! They’ll just be killed.” Harry didn’t want more deaths; there had been far too many already.

“I have no choice, Harry.” Kingsley bent and closed Dawlish’s eyes. “But what in Merlin’s name is going on? What’s happened to Hermione?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “ _That’s_ what Snape and I were trying to find out. I think—we think—she was cursed during the final battle… or maybe before, I have no idea.”

“You and Snape? He agreed to help you in this little endeavour? Out of the goodness of his heart?”

“Yes,” Harry snapped, not liking Kingsley’s tone of scepticism. He was _not_ going to tell him about the payment Snape had demanded. Recalling where Arthur had said he found Hermione, Harry asked, “Did you figure out what she was looking for?”

Kingsley shook his head. “We confiscated a large number of suspicious items from Malfoy Manor, but most had been dealt with and sealed away to prevent damage. The only things in the area she was searching were a cursed music box, several sets of china with the Black family crest and motto and a few rusty daggers. She was apprehended before she could get very far.”

“I really think you should let Snape and me look for her, find out what kind of curse is affecting her before anyone else gets hurt.”

“Harry, people are dead!” Kingsley snarled, pointing to Dawlish. “And the killer is Merlin knows where, having broken out of the most secure cells outside of Azkaban. How am I supposed to tell his family, the bloody public without explaining what we’re doing to prevent another incident?”

“All the more reason for us to find her,” Harry insisted. “I refuse to give up on Hermione, I know she’s in there… somewhere. Minister… Kingsley, this is Hermione, my best friend, and the brightest witch of her age. Without her we’d never have defeated Voldemort. You can bet she’d be doing everything in her power to save me if I was in the same situation. I won’t let her down.”

Kingsley crossed his arms and frowned. “I’ll give you one week, Harry. If you haven’t found her or cured her by then, I’m sending out the Aurors, and they’ll be authorized to use whatever force necessary. No exceptions. Are we clear?”

Harry nodded fervently. “Just activate the Tracking Charm, please.”

“What is her middle name?”

“Jean.”

Kingsley murmured a complicated spell in a low tone, adding an extra flip of his wand at the end. “To find her, hold your wand in your palm and say, ‘Point me to Hermione Jean Granger’. If you say it any other way, you will be pointed to anyone named Hermione or Granger. You must be very specific. Once the spell has locked onto her, it will Apparate you to her general vicinity.”

“How many times will it work?”

“I hope as many times as you need it to, but I can’t guarantee it. Since she isn’t here, I can’t make the spell as strong.”

“Thanks,” Harry said. 

“Harry? One week,” Kingsley reminded him.

Harry nodded. He just hoped that would be enough.

* * *

Grimmauld Place, specifically the sitting room, was an absolute wreck. Floor boards had been ripped up, furniture tossed aside, and in the middle of the floor, someone had blown a huge hole through which Harry could hear Snape cursing and casting spells. 

He tip-toed into the room and peered over the edge of the hole. A stray spell went flying past his ear. “Bloody hell, Snape!” The man had destroyed the sitting room and was now working on the cellar.

“Potter!” Snape roared, climbing out of the debris. “They’re not here!”

Harry fingered the phial that sat in his pocket. “I have some here in—”

Snape cut off his words by backing him into a corner. “Give them to me, they’re mine!”

“I know!” Harry shoved the phial into Snape’s hand. “Here, take it!”

It was like watching a feral animal being given a bone to gnaw on. Snape unstoppered the phial and pulled out the memories that Harry had been able to capture before they disappeared. Snape dipped his wand into the phial, drew out the wispy gleaming trails, and directed them towards his temple, the silvery strands disappearing into the stringy black hair. When the transfer was complete he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. 

After a few moments, Harry opened his mouth to tell him what happened with Hermione, but before he could get a word out Snape opened his eyes suddenly, his gaze full of anguish. “She’s gone,” he whispered.

“What?”

Snape collapsed on the wreckage of a sofa, face in his hands. “Most of my memories of Lily are gone: our childhood, the school years, the fights… gone. The memories you captured began from when you started at Hogwarts.”

Harry felt like someone was squeezing his heart in a vice grip. “But you just said her name, and you know those memories are missing. So you still remember her, right? She’s not truly gone, then.”

“Not yet,” Snape muttered and slowly raised his head, his eyes dull and blank. “But as the months pass, what little remains of her in my mind will be gradually erased.”

Harry dropped to his knees in front of Snape, aching as much as the man in front of him. “I won’t let you forget her.”

Snape sneered. “Oh yes, Potter, that’s so thoughtful. Let me look in your eyes—the eyes so much like your mother’s, the exact shade of green. Let me look my fill at the reminder of a woman I will eventually forget. Let me wonder why I trail after you like a love-sick fool in a vain attempt to fulfil some unquenchable thirst for a woman I will _never fucking remember_!” 

A small part of Harry’s brain thought that what he was about to do might be a colossally bad idea, but things had reached a boiling point within him. Without much thought, or finesse, Harry rose up and pressed his lips to Snape’s.

Snape sat very still, unmoving. Then he swiped his tongue on Harry’s bottom lip and one of them moaned. Harry opened his mouth and Snape’s tongue edged inside. Oh, this was heaven, he thought as their mouths fused together, but in the next moment a sharp pain made him jerk back with a cry.

Putting a hand to his stinging bottom lip, Harry’s fingers pulled away bloody. “Hey!” 

Snape smirked and swiped at the blood on his own mouth with his tongue. “Love is painful. Get used to it,” he said cruelly. He rose and made to leave the room.

Harry had no idea what to do or say, but he couldn’t let the man just walk away. “I need to talk to you!” he snapped. 

Snape arched a brow. “I think you’ve said enough, Potter.”

Oh, no. Snape was not going to do this to him. Not after what had just happened. And if the slight tinge of pink on his cheeks was anything to go by, Snape was not as unaffected as he pretended. “I, erm, I need to talk to you about Hermione.”

“Is that all?”

Damn the stubborn bastard. “For now.” They _would_ eventually talk about that kiss, but right now it was more important to find Hermione.

There was a noticeable tic in Snape’s jaw. “So, where is Miss Madder-Than-A-Hatter?”

Harry stood up. “They found her at the Ministry, in the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of… of…”

“Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects,” Snape finished for him. “Yes, yes. Who found her, exactly?”

“Arthur Weasley. I was with Kingsley when Arthur summoned him to deal with her.” 

Snape’s eyes widened. “Dare I ask—”

“I think you know.” Harry rubbed his temples. “Dawlish is dead, and Savage will probably die from his… wait. You can heal him!”

“What do you mean?”

“Hermione hit Savage with _Sectumsempra_ , and I didn’t know the counter-curse, and I thought—”

Snape moved closer, his eyes narrowing. “How does Miss Granger know about that spell, Potter? The fact that you found it was bad enough. Don’t tell me you told your friends…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Merlin save me from dunderheads.”

“You underestimate Hermione’s abilities to ferret out information, especially when it’s supposed to be hidden. Speaking of ferrets, how is Draco?” he added in an effort to change the subject.

“He’s sleeping. I’ve healed the most serious injuries; the rest will need to wait until we return from finding Miss Granger.”

“Kingsley gave us a week to find her and cure her. After that, he’s sending Aurors, authorised to use deadly force,”

“I’m relieved to know that the Minister has given us a realistic deadline,” Snape said sarcastically. “Has he activated the Tracking Charm?”

Harry nodded. “But we need to be able to leave the moment I say the spell. Are you ready?”

Snape crossed his arms and eyed him coldly. “Some of my most precious memories are missing, but don’t trouble yourself; I have nothing pressing.”

Harry gritted his teeth, refusing to be baited. “We’ll find them.”

“I’m not holding my breath.”

Harry threw his hands in the air. “Fine, whatever.” The man really was beyond exasperating. “We should go to St. Mungo’s first, to heal Savage.”

Snape’s retort was lost in the crack of Apparition.

* * *

To Harry’s dismay the trip to St. Mungo’s proved futile; Savage had died before he reached hospital. The blood-soaked sheet covering him seemed to reproach Harry for not acting faster.

“You’ll need to teach me the counter-curse someday, Snape,” Harry said in a low voice as they left the ward where Savage’s body had been put in stasis until his family came to collect him. 

“Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not; it may deter you from actually using the hex if you cannot undo what you have done.” 

“Bloody prat,” Harry muttered under his breath. “I used a Confundus Charm on Hermione just before she Disapparated. I’m not sure what that will do, but hopefully it slowed her down.”

Snape paused and gave Harry an assessing look. “Interesting. If the results are favourable, we can add that to our repertoire of spells that are at least somewhat effective with regards to Miss Granger.”

They exited the hospital and stood on the pavement. “Ready?” When Snape nodded, he held his wand in the palm of his hand and said in a loud and clear voice, “Point me to Hermione Jean Granger.”

The wand spun slowly at first, as if gaining its bearings, twirled faster for several seconds and then came to an abrupt halt. Harry was able to grab hold of Snape’s arm just before the second part of the spell activated. They were pulled away, with a sensation much like using a Portkey… and deposited right in the middle of a swamp. 

“Potter,” Snape growled. “I’m going to enjoy dissecting you!” He shook off Harry’s hand and climbed up a short but very slippery slope to a patch of dry ground, flinging mud everywhere. “Slowly!”

Harry didn’t answer. He was staring with bemused horror at the place where they had landed.

Across the field was the Burrow.


	7. Chapter 7

Twilight was tinging the sky by the time Harry and Snape—complaining acidly about a random chicken that had decided to peck at his boots—had trekked through the muddy field and knocked on the door of the Burrow. Harry was counting on Arthur still being tied up at the Ministry with all that had happened; if he were home and had given an account of events, even Molly would be likely to hex first and ask questions later.

A sleepy-looking Ginny opened the door. “Harry?” she mumbled. After rubbing her eyes and focusing a bit more, she smiled. “What brings you here?”

Snape cleared his throat and her smile dropped as she noticed Harry’s companion. She wrapped her fuzzy dressing gown tightly around her. 

Harry gave her a small smile. “Uhm, Hermione wouldn’t happen to be here, would she?”

Ginny’s look grew absolutely frosty. She was about to say something rude, Harry was sure of it, when Molly bustled to the door, her appearance haggard.

“Oh, Harry! Thank Merlin you’re here. I was about to Floo-call you. Poor dear has been shivering since we found her.”

Harry and Snape looked at each other. “Uhm, Mrs. Weasley, can we see her?”

Molly eyed Snape. “Are you sure that’s wise, Harry? Bringing _him_ here?”

Snape’s lips thinned. “ _He_ can hear you perfectly, madam. Considering Potter and Miss Granger are both alive, if not precisely well, I would say that absolves me of any nefarious intentions towards them.”

Molly harrumphed. “Well, come in then.” As she led them up the crooked steps to the first floor, she looked over her shoulder at Harry. “Charlie found her in the Orchard just a few hours ago. We heard her first—at least, it must have been her. Sounded as if someone were being tortured what with all the screaming.” She patted her chest nervously, trying to calm herself. “But when Charlie got there, she was huddled at the base of one of the apple trees, unconscious.”

“Has she remained so?” Snape questioned, as he pulled a phial of blue liquid from his inner coat pocket, which Harry recognised as the Calming Draught he had used on Hermione before. 

“Yes,” Molly said as they came to a halt at the door to what Harry knew to be Bill’s old bedroom. “I tried to wake her, to see if she would take some broth; she’s so thin, the poor dear.”

Harry figured it was a good thing Mrs. Weasley hadn’t been able to rouse Hermione. Merlin knows what might have happened, given her uncertain mental state. Molly opened the door and Harry spied Hermione curled up on the bed. Based on past experience, Harry wondered if she was really sleeping or just pretending; the position looked very uncomfortable.

“It’s best that we are alone when we wake her,” Snape said in a low tone. He went in and sat down on the side of the bed and placed his hand on Hermione’s forehead.

Molly frowned, obviously uncomfortable at the idea of leaving Snape alone with a defenceless Hermione. “But I—”

“Breakfast would be lovely, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry suggested, not wanting to shove the woman out of the room, but needing her to be elsewhere as quickly as possible. 

She blinked several times then nodded. “Yes, yes. Of course.” She gave Snape and Hermione one last look and then descended the steps to where Ginny waited with an irritated look on her face.

Harry went into the bedroom, closed the door behind him and warded it. “Well?”

“She has a fever.” Snape ran his wand over her several times. “Severely malnourished, as well.” He pulled an additional phial from his robes and placed it on the table. “She doesn’t seem to have the Elder Wand on her person.” 

Harry sat down on the other side of the bed. “No, she does, but the sense is vague, like it’s muffled or something. Is it…Hermione, or…”

“Miss Granger, I believe, though I cannot estimate for how long.” Snape pried open one eyelid. “Dilated. Potter, hold her mouth open.”

Harry took Hermione’s jaw in his hands and gently forced it open. Snape poured the Calming Draught slowly into her mouth while whispering a charm Harry didn’t recognize, and she swallowed instinctively. When she had drunk it all, Harry was about to release her, but Snape stopped him with a gesture. 

“I’ve had to augment the strength of the draught.” He opened the other phial and began to perform the procedure again. “For obvious reasons.” 

Harry nodded; one of the few things he remembered about Calming Draughts was that the more often someone was dosed with the potion, the more they would build up a tolerance to it. As it was, the potion seemed to be working. Gradually her rigid, trembling form relaxed on the bed, her body going completely limp. 

“Should we just let her sleep?”

Snape ran his index finger back and forth along his bottom lip, a sure sign that he was mulling things over. “My first inclination is no, but considering the past twenty-four hours, one of us is certain to collapse if we do not rest. The draught should last at least five hours at this dosage.”

The moment Snape said ‘rest’, Harry yawned wide and long. “I know I could use a kip. But shouldn’t we take her back to Grimmauld Place, or the Ministry? I mean, Arthur is bound to be home soon and I don’t think he’ll be too pleased at the idea of a fugitive in the upstairs bedroom.”

“I am hesitant to move her.” Snape suddenly rose and headed for the door. “I will speak to Molly, and Arthur when he arrives. Stay with her.”

“Why? You just said she’d sleep for five hours.”

Snape made an irritated sound. “As you may have noticed over the past few weeks, nothing about Miss Granger’s condition is predictable. I want you to stay here and make sure she doesn’t cause any more mischief.”

Harry snorted. “That’s rich. Mischief. I suppose what Voldemort was doing could be considered a ruckus?”

Snape’s mouth twisted. “You’re a cheeky brat, Potter.” 

He was gone before Harry could form a retort. Sighing, he lay down on the bed next to Hermione, wand firmly in his grip. He would just close his eyes for a moment...

* * *

A slight but rhythmic movement brought Harry gradually back to a lucid state, though he kept his eyes closed. He berated himself for falling asleep, but everything seemed peaceful. He opened one eye barely a slit to see what had awoken him.

Hermione was still lying next to him, but she seemed half-awake… and she was stroking the dark head that lay atop the duvet on the other side of her. Snape appeared to have dozed off in the chair and had slumped forward onto the bed, his head resting on his folded arms near Hermione’s left thigh. Harry wondered what time it was. He glanced at the window and guessed that a least a couple of hours had passed, if the bright sunlight filtering through the lace curtains was anything to go by. 

A soft grunt drew his attention back to Snape, who snuffled and rubbed his hooked nose in his sleep. Hermione’s hand stilled for a moment then resumed her gentle petting. Harry had seen the same behaviour when she had cuddled with Crookshanks. He shifted his gaze to see her expression, and his heart clenched at the look of longing on her face. And it was definitely Hermione that he saw, not the stranger who was slowly taking her place; he recognised the same look she had often sent Ron’s way in their sixth year, but hadn’t for a very long time. 

She continued her caresses of Snape’s head, tucking back a few strands of limp, black hair, letting her fingers drift over the shell of his ear. Harry was loath to disturb the mood, for he felt unaccountably content watching Hermione bestow affection upon a man who, he was sure, so desperately needed it. If anyone could coax the ice around Snape’s heart to melt, it would be her. But what about Snape’s earlier reaction to their impromptu kiss? He seemed to like it at first, but then he’d also seemed to enjoy causing Harry pain. What would Snape do if Hermione tried to kiss him? Would he shove her away or treat her cruelly as he had Harry? His mind was too muddled to ponder it further, so he closed his eyes again.

Harry must have drifted off again, for the next thing that roused him was the sound of hushed voices. He kept his eyes closed so that he would be free to listen.

“Do you remember anything?”

A pause. “I remember viewing your memories. I’m so very sorry for what happened in your youth, Severus.”

“There is no need. What’s past is done. Do you recall what happened after the memories?” Snape’s voice now had a bit of an edge to it.

“Did something break?” Hermione asked. “The images are fuzzy, but I think… oh, Merlin. The Pensieve!”

“Quiet!” Snape hissed. “I don’t want Potter awake. The boy is a hazard on the best of days; without sleep, he is an utter menace.”

“Sorry,” she whispered. There was a long pause. “You know how he feels, don’t you?”

Harry heard a prolonged rustling sound, as if Snape were shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “I have no idea to what you are referring.”

“I haven’t seen him this worked up over anyone since Draco in sixth year, and that pales in comparison to his obsession with you.”

Snape sighed heavily. “The boy is confused, melancholic.”

“He is not confused,” she said so quietly that Harry nearly missed it. “I think he’s figuring out what he wants and he’s afraid he can’t have it.”

“And what do you think ‘it’ is?”

The bed jiggled a bit and it felt like Hermione sat up a little. “You.”

There was no answer for a very long time and Harry worried that they had noticed that he was listening to them. Then…

“I gave my life to protect him,” Snape said at last, his voice weary. “My whole bloody life. He is meant to go on. I was not.”

“He will go on, Severus, just as you will.” Harry felt Hermione move again. “Can you tell me what I have done?”

“If you don’t remember, I see no reason to—”

“Please,” she insisted. “I need to know.”

Snape sighed. “After the incident with the Pensieve, you apparently wanted to revisit Malfoy Manor. What’s left of the mansion—”

“Left?” she whispered harshly. “W-what do you…”

“Miss Granger, I think it’s best I not tell you—”

“No, I’m sorry I interrupted you. Continue.”

There was such a prolonged silence that Harry wondered if Snape would actually tell her the rest, but only moments later, Snape murmured, “You killed Lucius Malfoy and two Aurors at the Ministry.”

“Oh…” Harry could hear the quiet hiccoughing gasps Hermione was making in an effort to not scream. “I can’t…” The dam finally broke and Harry listened to her cry softly, wishing he could make it all disappear. 

She sobbed her misery for what seemed like hours, but was more likely minutes. Finally the sobs eased and she cleared her throat. “So much has been demanded of you over the years, Severus. I don’t want to, but I need to ask you to do something for me.”

Harry dared to open one eye and saw that Hermione had Snape’s left hand clasped between her small ones and their heads were bent towards each other. 

“Well? What is it? You never suffered from a reluctance to speak up before,” Snape rasped when she hesitated. 

She began stroking the long, potion-stained fingers she held. “This… thing that is affecting me, I can feel it leaching my spirit, feel it changing everything that I am.”

“We are trying—”

She lifted one hand and covered his mouth to stop him from speaking. “I know. I know you and Harry are searching for the answers. I wish I could give them to you, but the darkness grows stronger, suffocating me.” She paused, and her voice trembled as she added, “Sometimes, I can’t remember my own name.”

Harry had to will himself to remain still. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that they would find the answer.

“I would ask that when the time comes, and it will be soon, that you…” She stifled a soft sob. “No, I can’t. I just can’t.”

Snape leaned his forehead upon hers. “Ask, Hermione.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his hair. She whispered something in Snape’s ear, too low for Harry to make out the words. Snape’s reaction told him that it had been devastating, though, for his face grew pinched in anguish and he wound his arms around her just as tightly. 

“It won’t come to that,” he said firmly.

She broke their embrace and sat back. “But if it does?”

He sighed. “If it does, I assure you, I will abide by your wishes.” 

She stroked his head. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Harry closed his eye and tried to survive the breaking of his heart all over again.

* * *

“Potter, wake up.”

Harry rolled over and immediately fell onto the floor. “Ow!”

There was a snort from above. “Grace, thy name is _not_ Potter.”

“Shut up,” Harry grumbled, getting to his feet. He rubbed his gritty eyes. “Hey, where’s Hermione?”

“Indisposed at the moment. I’ve dosed her again.” Snape moved towards the door. “We need to leave.”

“How long did I sleep?”

Snape pulled out a silver pocket watch. “Seven hours, thirty-seven minutes.”

Harry had needed every bloody second, too. “What are we going to do with Hermione?” he asked as he followed Snape down the steps.

“When she is in her fugue state, the dominant personality seems to be searching for something, something related to the Malfoys or the Blacks. I need to speak with Draco and find out where they stored their more questionable items before the Ministry descended upon them.”

“Do we have time to eat?” As if on cue, Harry’s stomach rumbled.

Snape arched a brow. He was about to speak when a scream rent the air.

“Ron!” It was Ginny’s voice, with a panicked tone that Harry had never heard before, even during the final battle.

Harry and Snape followed the sounds of the shouts and cries down the stairs, coming to a halt just inside the kitchen. Arthur, Molly, Ginny and Charlie had their wands trained on Hermione, whose arm was wrapped around Ron’s neck so tightly that his face was turning red. Hermione held the Elder Wand pointed to his temple.

“I thought you said you dosed her again?” Harry growled at Snape.

Hermione clucked her tongue. “Harry, so gullible.”

“She must have managed to rid herself of it,” Snape said. “Either that or its effectiveness is decreasing much faster than normal.” He withdrew his own wand. “Miss Granger, let Mr. Weasley go.”

“Ah ah ah,” she sing-songed. “Lover-boy here has given me a most interesting idea. Wanted us to go see dear old mum and dad. Said he’d thought it through and decided he wanted to be there for me.” She squeezed a little harder, Ron’s face now sporting purple blotches. “Didn’t you, lovey?” Abruptly, she released her grip on his neck, grabbed his hair and wrenched his head back. “Didn’t you!” she shrieked. The insanity on her face made it totally unrecognizable... and yet at the same time, Harry felt that it was eerily familiar.

Arthur took a step forward, his eyes fixed on his son.

“Don’t be a fool, Arthur!” Snape spat. “Stay where you are!”

Arthur stopped reluctantly. “Severus, I’ve been patient and tried to let you and Harry deal with her, but you know what she can do. I can’t let her harm my boy.”

“Then how about your precious baby bitch?” Without warning, Hermione slashed the Elder Wand forward and threw a hex towards Ginny so rapidly that she had no hopes of deflecting it.

With a cry Ginny fell to the floor, writhing and clutching her middle. Arthur shot an _Incarcerous_ at Hermione but she yanked Ron in front of her and he was instantly bound from shoulder to ankle. 

“Blood traitor, you’ll have to do much better than that!” Hermione laughed madly. “Let’s play, shall we?” She shoved the half-conscious Ron towards them and dashed for the staircase.

Arthur and Charlie followed her, spells, curses and hexes flying everywhere. Molly dropped to her knees beside Ginny, trying to counter the curse that had struck her. Snape pulled Harry into an alcove, both of them dodging a curse that shattered a vase on a side table. 

Several more shouts and stray spells echoed about the house as Snape moved out of the kitchen and into the centre of the Burrow, from which he could see all the staircases above. He cast a _Protego_ on himself before he spotted Hermione and had a clear shot. Snape sent a _Petrificus Totalus_ her way just as she loosed a _Reducto_ curse at Arthur, blasting the wizard over the railing of the steps. He landed two floors down with a sickening thud. 

“No!” Molly wailed and ran to her fallen husband.

“Potter, see to Ginevra while I retrieve Miss Granger,” Snape directed. Harry was too stunned to move for a moment and Snape gave him a brisk shove.

As if in a horrible dream, Harry went to Ginny and dropped to his knees beside her. She was screaming in agony and coughing up blood, though she had no visible wounds of any kind. Molly reappeared and leaned over her, desperately passing her wand back and forth, murmuring healing spells that seemed to have no effect. Adding his efforts to hers, Harry tried every spell he could think of to stop the progression of whatever Hermione had thrown at her, but nothing helped. Ginny tried to draw in a breath, an awful gurgling emanating from her chest, and then she was silent and moved no more.

“ _Os Exuro_ ,” Snape said from behind Harry. “It burns the bones of a person, nothing more. A specialty of Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Harry closed his eyes. He’d had a suspicion, an inkling; now it was confirmed, in the most terrible way possible. “She did something to Hermione, didn’t she?” he asked dully, already knowing the answer. “Hermione even suspected as much before things got worse.” He stood and swayed, turning his eyes away from Ginny’s body in sick horror, grateful that Snape caught his elbow.

“Steady, Potter.” Snape led him to a chair. Harry dropped into it, his mind a blank. Someone was wailing in agony, but it meant nothing to him. Vaguely, he watched as Snape levitated a petrified Hermione onto the kitchen table in front of him. “I must see to the Weasleys. Do not, under any circumstances, remove this spell. If she shows the slightest hint of movement, petrify her again.” Snape’s voice faded in and out. “Potter? Are you listening to me? Potter!”

A sharp stinging sensation across his cheek roused Harry from his stupor. “Now is not the time for weakness and hysterics!” Snape hissed. “I need you alert.” 

Harry rubbed his cheek. “Yeah... all right.” He blinked a couple of times and slowly took in the chaos around him. He heard Snape’s voice bark a command and the heart-rending shrieks stopped as if cut by a knife. A moment later, Molly was slumped limply in a chair across from him, stunned by Snape to stop her screams. Charlie was out cold, or at least Harry hoped he was, and sporting a large ugly gash along his back. Arthur lay where he had fallen, legs and head twisted at odd angles, his eyes half-open and staring at nothing. Ron was still bound; Harry guessed Snape had left him that way for fear of retaliation against the now-helpless Hermione. But instead of shouting or raging, Ron was quietly sobbing, his muffled cries like an arrow piercing Harry’s heart. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there. A flurry of activity went on around him and he watched in numb silence as Snape took Molly, Charlie and Ron somewhere. He hoped it was St. Mungo’s. 

His throat felt thick and painful, but knew if he let one tear fall he would weep for days. Months even. All of this—battle, blood and death—was supposed to be done with now that Voldemort had been killed; they weren’t supposed to be staring down another dark witch or wizard hell-bent on devastation. He had earned his respite. Why were the Fates determined to keep dogging him every step of the way? Was it the malign influence of the Elder Wand? Even now, he could feel the low-level hum of its presence, close by, coaxing him to seize his chance and end the destructive conflict once and for all. 

The Elder Wand—where was it? The last of Harry’s stupor left him, and he jumped up and started a frantic search of Hermione’s body for the wand. How had she been able to hide it, especially while at the Ministry? Where was it hidden? Did she use a Glamour? He lifted her skirt to see if she had a holster strapped to the inside of her thigh—and suddenly something grabbed him by the neck and pinned him to the table.

He flailed about and managed to claw the black fabric away from his face enough to see that it was Hermione’s legs, wrapped around him like iron bands. Gods, how had she gotten so _strong_? “If you wanted a peek, love, all you needed to do was ask,” she purred and sat up, legs still locked around his throat. She ran her fingers through Harry’s hair, her nails scoring his scalp. “Want a taste?” She thrust her hips so that Harry’s nose was flush against her knickers. 

Dear Merlin, she wasn’t supposed to smell this good, and how could he even be _thinking_ such a thing now? His hands scrabbled at the tops of her thighs in a bid to untangle himself from her grip. It only became tighter.

“Release him!” Snape’s voice was furious, but Harry had never been so glad to hear it. 

Hermione released him and he fell to the floor. A spell went flying towards Snape, who ducked with the agility of a much younger man and retaliated. Hermione slid off the table to avoid his hex and landed on Harry, knocking the wind from him. 

“Love to stay and chat, boys, but I’m on a bit of a tight schedule.” She kissed Harry hard on the lips and Disapparated.

Harry could feel Snape’s anger even before he spoke. “Potter!” He wrapped his fist in the front of Harry’s shirt and jerked him to his feet. “Of all the irresponsible… I told you to make sure she didn’t move! Even Longbottom could have followed those simple instructions!”

“Stop!” Harry roared, his fists curled and ready to strike. “I was trying to find the Elder Wand to get it away from her—”

“—which worked about as well as your plans usually do—”

“—and I know I bloody well fucked up!”

Snape’s lips thinned. “Yes, that about sums it up, doesn’t it?”

On top of his grief, anxiety and confusion, this was too much to bear. Unable to stop himself, and not really wanting to, Harry let loose and punched Snape. The older wizard stumbled back, blood welling from his split lip. 

“You filthy, misbegotten creature!” Snape fired a Stinging Hex that hit Harry on the right side of his chest.

“Son of a bitch!” Harry hurled a Jelly-Legs Jinx but Snape deflected it and returned another powerful spell—non-verbal this time, so Harry had no idea how to counter it and it threw him backwards several feet.

Lying breathless and aching at the back door entrance to the kitchen, Harry groaned and tried to sit up. Snape came into view, looming over him like a raven.

“The next time you try to hex me, Potter, I will not hesitate to end you, promise to your mother or no.” 

“You can try,” Harry panted.

Snape sneered. “I would have to try very hard.” He stepped away. “Get your wand. We need to find Miss Granger.”

Wincing at the pain throbbing on his right side, Harry glared at Snape as he held his wand in the palm of his hand. “Point me in the direction of Hermione Jean Granger.”

As before, the wand slowly started to turn. However, it did not speed up and come to a stop as it had before. Instead, it just continued to lazily spin, like a wonky dial on a compass. 

“What is wrong? Why is the spell not locking onto her?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, confused. He ended the spell with a quick _Finite_ and tried again, with the same results. “Damn. We may have to go and see Kingsley.”

“Don’t bother, he’s already here,” intoned a voice from behind them, and Harry turned to see the very man, standing in the entryway to the kitchen. 

The Minister was flanked by Aurors on either side, and his already dark face flushed darker as he took in the scene. Arthur was still lying crumpled on the floor and someone—probably Snape—had covered Ginny’s body with a sheet. 

“Sir, I—” Harry’s explanation was cut off by the Minister’s upraised hand. 

“Let me tell you what I see,” he said, biting off the words. “I see one of my best employees dead, as well as his daughter. I see two wizards who continuously tell me that they have everything under control, but have clearly done nothing to bring the perpetrator in! I see the death and destruction Hermione Granger leaves in her wake, and yet two of the most powerful wizards alive have done nothing more than exacerbate the situation. Now, I know I said that I would give you a week to bring Hermione in, but I can’t afford for this to happen again. I’m sending out Northbrook and Maccabee, and they have full authorization to terminate.”

“No!” Harry shouted. “You can’t do this, it’s not her fault!”

Kingsley shook his head. “I’m sorry Harry, fault or no fault, she’s a terrible danger. It’s already done.”

Harry made a rush at Kingsley, but was yanked back against Snape’s chest. “Potter, not here. Not now.” When he continued to struggle, Snape whispered, “Harry, there are other ways.”

Snape had never called Harry by his given name; it had a profound effect. He immediately ceased fighting against Snape and sagged in his arms. 

“I want you both out of here in the next ten minutes,” Kingsley warned. “And don’t interfere any further. The matter is out of your hands.” He stared at them for a brief moment and then instructed the Aurors with him to collect Arthur and Ginny’s bodies. Once this was complete, they Disapparated. 

Snape dragged Harry out of the Burrow and the crisp evening air hit his fevered face like a bucket of ice water. “We have to find her before they do.” He thought of Hermione hunted, cut down by the Aurors like an animal. Like a Death Eater...

“You are stating the obvious, Potter.” Snape moved away and sat on a stump. “Think. Why did the spell to locate Miss Granger not work?”

Instead of answering, Harry tried the spell again with the same results: a slowly spinning wand, unable to lock onto anything. “It’s trying to find her,” he said.

Snape healed the laceration on his lip with a brusque _Episkey_. “The problem may be graver than you think.”

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps the reason the spell can no longer locate her is that she may no longer be Hermione Jean Granger.”

Harry paled. “No, don’t say that! There has to be another explanation.” And then it hit Harry like a Bludger to the chest. “Oh no…”

“What?”

“I think I know why the spell can’t lock onto Hermione.”

“Well? Spit it out.”

Harry swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Remember what she said in the kitchen, about visiting ‘mum and dad’?”

Snape frowned. “Yes, what of it?”

“I think she’s on her way to Australia.”

Snape’s eyes pinned him like a beetle to a card. “Why in Hecate’s name would she go halfway around the world?”

Harry gave him a pointed look. “That’s where she sent her parents after she Obliviated them. To start a new life.”

“Damn,” Snape cursed and rubbed his temples. “That means we’ll need a Portkey; several, in fact.”

The idea made Harry’s skin itch; anytime he’d had to deal with Portkeys, nothing good had come of it. He didn’t imagine this time would be any different.


	8. Chapter 8

“Potter, I want you to scour the contents of the library, or anywhere else Miss Granger may have conducted research, and bring me anything that is remotely related to what she was working on.”

“Shouldn’t we be working on finding her?” Harry objected. Time was against them, and Snape wanted to read?

Pausing at the doorway to the room where Draco was resting, Snape gave Harry an exasperated look. “The sooner we find out what Miss Granger was looking for, the greater the chance we have of ridding her of the malevolent spirit inside. Besides, I am not convinced she has left the country, as you assume.”

“Why?”

“One could not Apparate such a long distance without Splinching one’s self. Therefore, a Portkey must be used. In order for Portkeys to be arranged between different countries, the consent of both nations' Ministries of Magic must be obtained. In other words, the British Ministry would have to contact the Australian Ministry and create a Portkey based on their criteria. Do you really think Kingsley would have granted this permission? Or that she could have obtained one without his authorisation?”

“Bugger,” Harry muttered. “Couldn’t she just have created one?”

Snape’s brows rose. “Creation of unauthorised Portkeys is punishable by the severest of penalties.” 

“What is it?”

“I’m not quite sure, never having tested the claims, but it involves the Unspeakables.”

Harry shuddered. Anything involving the Unspeakables and that damned Veil room instantly made him ill. “You think Malfoy will tell us what we need to know?”

Snape shrugged. “He won’t tell you, but he will tell me.”

“Sodding prat,” Harry grumbled and left Snape at the door to descend to the library.

* * *

Just before he went in search of Hermione’s work, Harry stopped on the threshold of the wrecked sitting room. “ _Accio_ Snape’s memories,” he intoned, just to see if there was even one more that could be retrieved. 

Nothing.

Harry sighed. He had very mixed feelings about the whole thing. If he were in Snape’s shoes, he’d be irate if someone had erased his memories about Hermione. But likewise, if those memories were painful, would he truly miss them? He could definitely stand to lose the ones concerning the Dursley’s. Maybe this was an opportunity for Snape to heal the most damaged and bitter parts of himself… by forgetting. 

Much later, when Harry entered Malfoy’s bedroom, he had to stifle a gasp. Snape had said that Draco was seriously injured, but he looked like death warmed over. Even paler than usual, he sported several lacerations on his left cheek and a purple bruise on his right. His bottom lip was swollen and split in two places. Apparently, it would take more than a few healing spells to put Malfoy to rights. 

“Are you done staring, Potter?” Draco asked, his words slurred by the swelling. “I must say, even like this, I look better than you ever will.”

“Draco…” Snape warned, though his voice carried a tone of affectionate chiding.

“What? Don’t tell me you’ve taken his side?” Draco spluttered.

Snape crossed his arms and arched a brow. “Though I’m reluctant to mention it, Potter _did_ save your life at Malfoy Manor. Had he not pulled you free of Miss Granger’s clutches, you would have fared a worse fate.”

Draco muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘another fucking life-debt, Potter’, but Harry couldn’t be sure. He hid his smirk as he sat down in a chair beside Draco’s bed. He leaned over and handed a thick file to Snape.

“This was all I could find.”

Snape took the file and thumbed through it, pausing on something several pages in. “Catoptromancy, binding diagrams, reflections…”

Draco frowned. “That sounds like Aunt Bella’s work.” He gave Potter a dubious look. “Why would Granger be researching—”

“Your aunt did something to Hermione,” Harry said. “That’s why she’s… well, she’s—”

“Not herself,” Snape drawled. “Literally. I believe Miss Granger was damaged by Bellatrix while at the manor. Do you know what happened to her after Potter and Mr. Weasley were taken below to the cellars?”

Draco fidgeted and looked away. “She took her to the psychomanteum,” he whispered. “I don’t know how long they were in there; half an hour, I think.”

“What in Merlin’s name is a psychomanteum?” Harry asked.

Draco turned his face away, and after a moment Snape answered. “In ancient times, it was believed that a reflective surface could serve as a conduit to the spirit world. Based upon this notion, some wizards attempted to create a mirrored room to communicate with the spirit realm. Some of the more elaborate psychomanteums of the era may have involved mazes which the participants wandered through before reaching the centre, where the actual ‘contact’ would take place.” Warming to his subject, Snape stood and began pacing slowly back and forth. “To contact the dead, one would wander into the labyrinth. Upon reaching a dish of reflective material—which could be water, mercury, silver or even blood—they would gaze at their own image until the deceased individual’s reflection replaced their own, at which time an exchange between them could supposedly take place.” Snape paused, pondering. “I recall the Dark Lord’s fascination with Bellatrix’s private research, which she would never discuss. It suggests that she had, as Draco said, created a psychomanteum. Had his soul not already been torn countless times, I believe the Dark Lord would’ve incorporated this method as his contingency plan.”

Harry’s head hurt from all the information. “I don’t understand.”

Draco rolled his good eye. “Are you always this idiotic, Potter, or are you making a special effort today? While you and Weasel-bee were in the dungeons, Bellatrix took the Mudbl—”

“Don’t!” Snape ground out.

Draco made a feeble gesture. “Fine. Bellatrix took _Granger_ into the psychomanteum. I don’t know what happened in there, but when Bella brought her back out she was unconscious.” 

“We could hear her screaming,” Harry whispered. It had been gut-wrenching at the time, and sometimes he still had nightmares where they hadn’t escaped at all. 

Snape stopped pacing. “Draco, does the room still exist?”

Draco shrugged. “I don’t know the state of the Manor since the fire. It was located across from the drawing room. No one but Aunt Bellatrix and the Dark Lord went in there. If it’s still there, I’m not sure you could gain access—no doubt they had it protected.”

“We’ll try,” Harry affirmed and rose, heading for the door. 

Snape snorted. “Eager to go charging into certain death, are we?”

Harry paused in the doorway. “We _do_ need to go in there, right?”

“Remind me why Potter is dragging you into his mess?” Draco asked Snape with a sneer.

“It’s not _my_ mess,” Harry snarled. “It’s your bloody aunt’s mess! She killed my godfather, but I’ll be damned if she takes my best friend too!” He left the room, slamming the door behind him, not caring whether Snape followed him or not.

* * *

The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air as they entered Malfoy Manor and picked their way through charred beams and the ruins of posh carpets until they came to what Snape said was the drawing room. 

According to Snape, dark green silk wallpaper had once covered the entire corridor, but most of it was burnt from the intense heat of the fire. Now, nothing but charred curls showed above the scorch marks and ash where the wood panelling on the lower half had been. 

“So where’s this room?”

“It’s here, Potter. Place your hand on the wall.”

Harry did, and his hand tingled as the blackened surface vibrated with a familiar, Dark magic. “I’ve felt this before,” he murmured. “When Dumbledore took me to the cave…”

“What happened in the cave?” Snape asked hesitantly.

Reaching for his wand, Harry murmured _Incisum_ to slice his palm and rubbed it across the wall. “It could only be opened by blood magic.”

“What are you doing?” Snape growled. “You should have let me—”

“Why?” Harry asked with a shrug. His hand stung as if he’d been bitten by a Grindylow, but it had seemed the obvious choice—he didn’t see Snape as the giving type. 

A slight green glow slowly brightened, outlining a door that had not previously been visible. The door itself gradually dissolved to reveal a bare room with one wall adorned in nothing but ornate mirrors of every size and shape. Harry took a step forward, but Snape’s grip on his arm held him back.

“Have you learned nothing?” He raised Harry’s injured hand, healed the cut, and let go. “Blundering in before casting defensive spells is how some thick-headed wizards and witches have met their doom!” 

Harry’s face burned with embarrassment as he cradled his hand against his chest. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly and waited as Snape waved his wand in intricate arcs for several moments. 

Keeping his wand raised, Snape cautiously stepped into the room. “ _Lumos_.” The light cast miniscule rainbow prisms all about the surprisingly small room.

Harry followed behind him. “Hey, there’s a mirror missing.”

Snape moved closer to inspect the area where there had clearly been a mirror hanging, as evidence of the smudged outline on the wall. He ran his wand along the boundaries. “It seems it was removed recently.”

Harry craned his neck to study the other mirrors. “By who?”

“Whom, Potter. It could possibly—” Snape frowned and retrieved a Galleon from his vest pocket. “We must return immediately.”

Before he could voice a question, Harry was pulled out the door and squeezed through the tight embrace of Apparition.

* * *

Snape put his index finger to his lips to indicate silence as they entered Grimmauld Place. After hearing a series of thumps coming from upstairs, Harry nodded and followed him through the kitchen. By the time they reached the landing to the first floor, Harry heard horrific screams in the bedroom where they had left Draco. Carefully opening the door, the screams became deafening and Snape stopped in the entryway, not letting Harry see what was happening. Harry peered around him, instead, and his eyes widened.

Hermione sat on Draco’s stomach, a bright silver knife in her hand, carving the word ‘traitor’ onto his pale skin. It had already been etched into his forehead and his right forearm, and blood oozed and trickled down his ribs as she sliced into his bare chest. 

“Where is it?” she snarled. “Where have you put my mirror? You should have felt honoured to serve our lord, and yet you betray me! Me!”

Snape sent a non-verbal spell at her, but she blocked it as if batting away a fly. She looked over her shoulder at them and smiled. “Mummy’s boy and snivelling traitor,” she purred. She sat up and ran her fingers through Draco’s bloody strands of hair. “My precious porcelain doll is broken,” she pouted, but almost immediately her expression morphed into a crazed gleam. “His secrets will spill.”

Knowing he had to mean it, hoping he could even though the creature on the bed was wearing Hermione’s face, Harry concentrated and gathered his courage. “ _Imperio_!” 

Neither Hermione nor Snape had been expecting anything like that, if their shocked expressions were anything to go by. Harry ignored the wizard standing next to him, focusing instead on issuing his first command.

“Sit in the chair.”

Hermione’s clouded eyes turned to the leather wing-backed chair near the wardrobe. Slowly, she climbed off the bed, made her way over to it, and sat down with her hands in her lap and her knees together like a prim schoolgirl. 

“Bind her,” Harry said to Snape, his attention never leaving Hermione. 

In his peripheral vision, he watched as Snape cast several powerful immobilizing spells and, once she was well and truly bound to the chair, poured a potion into her mouth. Even under the Imperius Curse, she attempted to avoid Snape’s hands.

“Swallow,” Harry ordered. She did, and he breathed a sigh of relief when she sagged against the leather a few moments later.

With the immediate threat removed, Snape knelt on the bed to check on Draco. “He’s alive, but we need to get him to St. Mungo’s.” Snape moved his wand over Draco’s injuries, murmuring a stasis spell to keep him safe for the moment.

Turning from the unconscious boy, Snape plucked the Elder Wand from Hermione’s limp hand and held it out to Harry. “For Merlin’s sake, keep this hidden!”

Harry pocketed the wand. “How strong is that dosage?”

“Triple the normal amount.” Snape hesitated. “I can’t increase it anymore without the threat of sending her into a coma.”

“Damn.” 

“Precisely.” 

“Is she conscious?” She didn’t look it, but based on past experience he could never tell.

Snape laid his hand on her forehead, his thumb idly caressing her brow. “No, she’s sleeping at the moment. I suggest we let her rest for a half hour then wake her. This dosage will last at most three hours.”

Harry noticed the gentleness of Snape’s touch but said nothing. He had too many conflicting emotions to sort through; it was enough to simply acknowledge that Snape felt _something_ for Hermione, even if it were merely concern. Contemplating more than that only brought confusion. 

“Potter, go and find something to eat while I tend to Malfoy.”

Glad to have something to do to distract him from Snape’s evident affection for Hermione, Harry quickly fled to the kitchen below.

* * *

After eating a few sandwiches, drinking copious amounts of fortifying tea and with Draco safely in St. Mungo’s, Harry and Snape made their way back to the bedroom where Hermione was still unconscious and pondered their next move.

“Veritaserum may prove useful,” Snape mused. “From what we’ve learned, clearly there is a mirror involved. I could attempt Legilimency again, as well.”

“Would you be talking to Hermione or… Bellatrix?” Harry had known for a while now that it was Lestrange they were dealing with, he had just never voiced his conclusion.

Snape rubbed his temples and forced back a yawn. “I don’t know. Theoretically, I could make contact with Bellatrix even if she is dormant using Legilimency, but I can’t guarantee that it would not be dangerous for Miss Granger. Or for me.”

Harry chewed on the side of his thumb. “Will keeping her under the Imperius Curse cause any side effects?”

“It doesn’t surprise me that you did not consider the consequences of cursing Miss Granger,” Snape said acidly. “You are not precisely famous for your forethought.”

“Hermione. Call her Hermione,” Harry snapped. “If you’re going to touch her like you did, you can damn well call her by her given name.”

Snape’s brows rose. “What are you suggesting, Potter?” he asked carefully.

Harry didn’t want to do this, not now, but things were coming to a head inside his mind. “I’m suggesting you care for her, more than you’d like to.”

“Of all the presumptuous, idiotic—”

“Come off it, Snape. I’ve seen the way you treat her when she’s herself. And I’ve seen the way she looks at you when you’re unaware.”

Snape scoffed and looked away. “Considering Miss Granger has been imbued with the nastier aspects of Bellatrix Lestrange since before the final battle, I’ll take that as a warning to avoid her company from now on.” 

“No.”

“No?” Snape gave him an incredulous look. “You dare to tell me what I can and cannot do?”

“I’m saying that she cares for you as much as you do for her, and that if you weren’t a blind, bitter old man still fixated on a woman that never loved you, you could see that!”

Livid did not begin to describe Snape’s reaction. Furious, enraged, incensed—those were apt descriptions of what Harry saw as Snape stormed towards him. 

He grabbed Harry by the shirt collar and shook him violently. “Masochistic fool! Do you want to hear the lurid fantasies I had about the two of us? Shall I outline the many ways I imagined eviscerating your father for daring to touch what was rightfully mine?” 

Unbidden, tears welled in Harry’s eyes. “She was never yours,” he choked out. “You lost her long before you called her a Mud—”

“ _Never say that word_!” Snape roared, a drop of spittle landing on Harry’s cheek. 

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, Snape’s fury vanished and he dropped Harry to the ground. Harry scuttled backwards and wiped at his eyes as Snape collapsed in a chair next to Hermione. Red tinted Snape’s cheeks and the dour wizard looked exhausted, his expression tinged with misery and loss. When he glanced at Hermione, anguish suffused his features.

And in that moment, Harry knew what it was costing Snape to even consider caring for Hermione. In her, Snape saw a chance to, if not redeem himself, then at least save one Muggle-born where he had failed to save another. He was desperate to help Hermione avoid the fate that had befallen Lily.

“You don’t even want Sirius’ library anymore, do you?” Harry said thoughtfully.

Snape grimaced and shook his head. 

Harry rose and released Hermione from the Imperius leaving the other binding spells in place. “I want to be alone with her for a moment.”

Snape narrowed his eyes as he rose from his chair. “Why?”

Harry glared right back. “Because I’m her bloody friend and I want this conversation to be private!”

Snape took an involuntary step backwards at the heat in Harry’s tone, then bowed his head in acknowledgement. He left the room and quietly closed the door behind him. 

Harry sighed and pulled Snape’s chair around until it was in front of Hermione’s and sat down. “Hermione?” He took her chilled, lifeless hand in his, but she didn’t respond. “Hermione, please,” he begged, his voice nearly breaking.

Blinking slowly, she opened her eyes and tried to sit up, but was prevented by the spell binding her to the chair. “Harry? Where are we?”

He gave her a small smile. “Back at Grimmauld Place. How are you feeling?”

“I’m cold,” she whimpered. “So cold…”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered and bent low to blow a warm breath over her hands. Once the chill had thawed a bit, he sat back. He didn’t want to betray her trust, but he knew he had to mention the exchange between her and Snape. “I overheard you talking with Snape at the Burrow. Do you remember the conversation?”

She frowned. “That was private, Harry.”

“I know,” he said, miserably. “But I just…”

She laid her head against the back of the chair as if exhausted. “You couldn’t help listening.”

Shame filled Harry. “I know it was wrong, I know that. But, you asked him to do something… something horrible, based on his reaction. Why couldn’t you ask it of me?”

“Oh, Harry,” she whispered. She managed to squeeze his hand. “I didn’t want that burden on you.”

He leaned forward and laid his forehead against hers. “Hermione, you’re not a burden.”

She angled her head and pressed a kiss to his brow. “This thing I asked of Severus, you could not do.”

“What did you ask him?”

She gave a minute sniff. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.”

Harry sat back and gave her a look of betrayal. “Don’t say that. All my life, people around me have tried to keep me in the dark about everything. Everything! It’s cost me more than you’ll ever know. Please tell me!”

“All right.” She gave him an unflinching look. “I asked him to kill me if I become…”

Harry swallowed heavily, his throat tight and painful. “If you become Bellatrix.”

The dark smudges under her eyes and her gaunt face reinforced the picture of a losing battle. “I did something horrible at the Burrow, didn’t I, Harry?” His non-answer was proof enough and she nodded her head, tears trickling down her cheeks. “Severus told me what happened with the Malfoys and at the Ministry. I’ve had my suspicions, about what Bellatrix did to me in that room. I thought I could stop her if I found the right spell or the correct sequence of runes. But I can’t. I can’t stop her when she grows powerful. I’ve tried. Soon, there won’t be anything left of me. That’s when Severus will do what he has to do.” 

“No,” Harry sobbed and laid his head in her lap, clutching at her. “Please, no. I can’t lose you, and if he kills you it will destroy him—I’ll lose him too.” Tears were streaming down his face. “I love you both too much to let you go.”

His raspy declaration of devotion sounded foreign to him, as if another person in another time and place were speaking with his voice. But he felt it, oh did he feel it; the chains and hooks embedding themselves in his heart, ready to rend it to pieces if one of them perished. So distraught was he that he barely noticed fingers gently carding through his hair until they tugged firmly on a strand.

He raised his head and Hermione’s hand cupped his cheek; he didn’t even care that the magical bonds had dissolved and she was free. “It won’t be long now, Harry,” she whispered.

An anguished moan escaped and he pulled her to him in a fierce hug. “Please don’t leave me!”

“Shhh,” she whispered, her arms going around him as she pressed a kiss to his temple. “Harry, look at me.”

He was sure he looked a mess: blotchy, red-nosed, wet, but he did as she asked, meeting her eyes reluctantly.

She cradled his face between her hands. “Promise me you will look after him, that you will care for him as I will not be able to.”

He shook his head in denial. “No! The two of you will grow old together and—”

Her fingers on his mouth silenced him. “Tell him that, if I’d had the chance and the time, I would’ve left him no doubt that he was loved.”

He nodded, unable to speak. When he reached to touch her face, he was shocked by how cold it was. Her eyes, once vibrant and warm, even if they had been sad for so long now, were slowly becoming hard and glinting.

“Stay with me?” she gasped, visibly struggling as if she were drowning.

“Never leave you,” he ground out. 

Her mouth worked as she fought to push words past the force that was trying desperately to silence her. “Destroy the mirror!” she managed to gasp out, and then slumped forward. 

Harry clenched his eyes shut against the ache in his heart and he bent his head towards hers. “Hermione,” he sobbed into her hair.

Fingernails dug into his back and arms squeezed him tight. “Hello, lover. Give us a kiss.”

Pain exploded in Harry’s head as she fisted her hand in the hair at the back of his head and gave a yank that nearly ripped it out. Dry, chapped lips mashed against his, and he tasted blood. He tried to wrench himself away, but she was too strong.

He wormed his arms between them and pushed against her chest, trying to gain enough leverage to escape her grasp, but she lunged forward and knocked them both to the floor. She muttered something and Harry found his wrists pinned to the ground, 

She quickly set about searching his clothes, then paused. “What have we here?” she purred and palmed his cock through his jeans. “James left you well-endowed, did he?” She giggled madly. “Or did Snape have a poke or two at dear old mum? Are you lusting after your father, not your Potions professor?” she clucked in mock disapproval. “My, my, we are depraved, aren’t we?”

Bile rose in Harry’s throat. “Snape never touched my mum!”

Hermione arched a brow, giving him a lascivious smirk. “Are you sure? Potter always led us a merry chase, but Snape was always conveniently occupied.” She leaned down and licked his cheek. “I hear she especially liked being fucked while he wore his Death Eater robes.”

Past the point of rage, Harry head-butted Hermione, breaking his glasses and sending her sprawling off to the side. He twisted in a vain effort to pull his hands free. He heard the door open but his vision was blurry without his glasses, and he couldn’t see who it was. He heard a shriek of fury, something struck his head, and he collapsed on the floor and blacked out.

* * *

His head was throbbing, and he wondered vaguely when the last time was he’d awoken without some sort of injury. The pain eased considerably when a cool compress was placed on his forehead. “Hermione?”

There was a soft snort. “Never once have I been mistaken for a witch, Potter.”

Ah. Snape. “There’s a first time for everything,” he groaned. He shifted his weight and ascertained he was lying on a bed. “Did you get the name of the train that hit me?”

“That would be your rock-hard Gryffindor head as it met Miss Granger’s. She is lying beside you.” Snape nodded to Harry’s right. “There is a sizeable bruise on your brow and I believe you may have cracked your nose. Shame, it was so… prominent.”

Snape’s comment connected in Harry’s head with Hermione’s earlier insinuations, causing him to lurch over to the side of the bed and vomit. When the dry heaves finally ended, he spat several times and then wiped his mouth. 

“Heathen,” Snape muttered and cleaned the mess with a curt _Tergeo_. 

“You didn’t shag my mum, did you?” Harry croaked, unable to rein in the thoughts that were running rampant through his aching head.

“Of course not.” Snape frowned fiercely. “What far-fetched idea have you come up with this time? You must have hit your head harder than I thought.”

Harry nodded and immediately regretted it. “Hermione… said some things.”

Snape handed him his repaired glasses. “Such as?”

Harry donned his spectacles and the world came into focus. “Never mind.”

“Idiot.”

“Among other things,” Harry said. He tried to sit up but had to steady himself from the overwhelming dizziness. “We have to find that mirror.”

“What are you talking about? More nonsense?”

Harry touched the side of his tender nose. “Ow. The mirror. Hermione told me before Bellatrix took over to destroy the mirror.”

Snape’s eyes widened. “The missing mirror from the psychomanteum!” He stood quickly and began pacing. “Yes! It all makes sense now.”

Following Snape’s rapid movement was making Harry nauseous. “Please stop pacing and tell me what makes sense now. Because it doesn’t to me.”

Snape halted and gripped the edge of the bed’s wooden footboard. “I was summoned just before your seventeenth birthday to a meeting at Malfoy Manor, at which only the highest-ranking Death Eaters were present. The Dark Lord made it very clear that he intended to kill you himself. Afterwards, he and Bellatrix disappeared into that room. When they emerged, the Dark Lord seemed unusually cheerful and Bellatrix looked… well, deranged as she already was, she looked even more so than usual.”

“Is that whole room a Horcrux?” 

“Not in the traditional sense. A psychomanteum can facilitate a soul transference, however.”

Harry rubbed his temples. “You’ve lost me.”

Snape sat next to Hermione on the bed, checking briefly to see that she was still unconscious. “Depending on the power of the witch or wizard using such magic, a portion of their soul can be confined in the mirror. The more powerful the magic, the greater the portion of their soul.”

“So it _is_ like a Horcrux.” 

“No. Stop interrupting me.” Harry gave him a sheepish look and Snape continued. “A Horcux’s magic can be accessed at any point in time by the person whose soul it contains. Mirror magic is far trickier. If the person whose soul is contained in the mirror dies, the fragment of soul is severed. Untethered, it floats, seeking a physical anchor, drifting towards the last person to have caught a glimpse of it. Eventually, it possesses the only living person who looked upon the reflection.”

“But Bellatrix was alive when we left the Manor that night…”

“And Bella died later at Hogwarts. No one except Miss Granger and Bellatrix know the whole story, but my theory is that the night Miss Granger was tortured, she was taken to the psychomanteum, where Bella’s soul had already been infused into the missing mirror. Upon Bella’s death, Miss Granger became the host for that fragment, infecting her like a disease. Bellatrix would have wanted a younger victim as her potential vessel, regardless of blood purity, because once the soul is transferred it becomes a parasite, insidiously growing until it overtakes its victim and the original host is no more. If Bellatrix found the mirror, she could hide it herself to where no one would ever be able to locate it… and break it.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Harry breathed. “She’s literally becoming Bellatrix Lestrange, isn’t she?”

Snape glanced at the bound sleeping witch. “I believe she may be past ‘becoming’. Miss Granger is no longer—”

“No!” Harry spat vehemently. “Don’t say it. She’s in there, I know it!” He tossed aside the covers and stood on wobbly feet. “We have to find that mirror! Go talk to Draco at St. Mungo’s. Maybe he stowed it someplace.”

“Do not order me about!” Snape’s voice was cold.

“Her life is on the line!”

“There is no life left!” Snape shouted. “Look at her!”

“Get out,” Harry seethed, aiming his wand at Snape. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Arrogant brat! She gave me specific instructions to—”

“Kill her, I know!” He shouldn’t have enjoyed Snape’s face paling the way it did, but his own pain made him careless of the other man’s. “She told me all about it.” He advanced on Snape. “You know what else she told me? That I should take care of you after she’s gone.” He snorted mirthlessly. “That’s a joke, isn’t it? Me taking care of you. She must have truly been gone to even suggest such a thing.”

“Potter, do not point your wand at me,” Snape commanded, though with less authority than usual. “Remember what happened at the Weasleys.”

Harry was about to make a retort, when manic laughter filled their ears. They turned to see Hermione smirking at them, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth.

“Oh, I do love to see a filthy mating dance!” she leered. “Go on, then. Bark like a dog!” Her cackles were a cacophony in the small room.

Harry’s chest tightened. She was making no sense whatsoever, even for Bellatrix. He turned to Snape, unafraid to beg. “Please, help me. I know you care for her.”

Snape’s lips thinned as he frowned. He cast a Stunning Spell towards Hermione which struck her full in the chest. When she did not move, Snape lifted her from the bed, her head lolling on his shoulder. 

“Well?” Snape barked, when Harry just stared at them. “Let’s find that mirror.”

Harry started, then—trying not to make too much of the faint hope that flickered in his heart—grabbed hold of Snape’s arm and Apparated them to the grounds of Malfoy Manor.


	9. Chapter 9

Snape, carrying Hermione, and Harry entered the damaged portion of Malfoy Manor and picked their way through the still-smouldering rooms to the psychomanteum. Instead of offering another blood sacrifice to open it, they removed the door completely, ensuring continued access.

“Sit, Potter,” Snape ordered, nodding to an elaborate chaise lounge in the corner of the corridor. He laid the still unconscious Hermione in Harry’s lap. “I must search the manor for the missing mirror.” 

“What if she wakes up?” Harry asked uneasily. It wasn’t like they hadn’t done everything in the book to her, except the Killing Curse. He was running out of ideas to keep her calm. 

“Stun her, you imbecile!”

Harry glared. “You have noticed that most of the spells and potions we’ve been using are weakening to the point they have almost no effect on her, right?”

Snape took a deep breath, clearly stifling a desire to lash out in response, but he settled for a sneer. “No, it has not escaped my notice, though I am surprised that you’ve actually managed to add two and two together and come up with four rather than, say, eleven.”

Harry gave him a wide grin, knowing it would rankle the man even further. “You’ll find I’m full of surprises.”

“Not that many,” Snape snorted and disappeared into the gloom of the broken house.

“Bloody git,” Harry muttered and pulled Hermione close, waiting for Snape’s return.

* * *

A roar of frustration startled Harry from his doze. He tightened his grip on Hermione’s limp form, grateful that she hadn’t moved—he’d had to stun her three times so far and was afraid he might be doing permanent damage. He blinked and let his eyes adjust to the dim light.

He heard the stomp of feet in the shadows of the hallway, followed by Snape striding into the corridor. “I must go to St. Mungo’s and see Draco.”

Harry groaned. “Why?”

“I cannot find the mirror. Perhaps he knows where it is, or if the Ministry has taken it.”

“I thought he was unconscious.”

Snape sighed. “Still underestimating my skills, Potter? I do have certain means at my disposal.”

Harry shuddered. “I bet it’s unpleasant, and if that’s what you do to people you care about, I’d hate to see what you do to people you despise. Oh, wait. I already know.”

“Ill-mannered lout,” Snape retorted. “Keep her unconscious.”

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Harry muttered. He watched Snape disappear into the night and heard the front door close, then sighed heavily. He really hoped Draco had some answers.

* * *

Harry’s arms and legs started to go numb, and Snape had not returned. 

The first rays of dawn crept into the room, and still, Snape had not returned. 

Hermione now sat in an overstuffed leather chair Harry had found in another room, her hands and torso bound to the chair, and yet… Snape had not returned.

Harry had cast six Stunners, three Confundus Charms, and one _Petrificus Totalus_ in the time that Snape had been gone. He wondered how long the current spell would last and tried not to think about what he would do if they all stopped working entirely.

“She’s mine, you know,” purred a voice, startling Harry out of his reverie.

He blinked several times. Hermione was awake, or at least the thing that used to be Hermione was awake. Her hair was now completely black and wild. There was no soft or tender emotion in her eyes. When she smiled, the clean, even teeth that Hermione used to be so proud of were gone, replaced by ones that were broken and blackened. Harry was reminded of the time they had infiltrated Gringott’s, how Hermione had become a Polyjuiced version of the witch who had started all of this. Now, instead of Hermione trying to imitate Bellatrix, it was the other way around. 

She wasn’t trying to escape, but her feet were dangling from the high seat, swinging lazily back and forth, indicating that the binding spells were at least partially gone.

“She’ll never be yours,” Harry said fiercely. “We’ll find a way to get rid of you, one way or another.” But the more he searched for signs of his friend in the person sitting in front of him, the more his fears grew that it was too late. Pulling out his wand, he laid it in the palm of his hand. “Point me in the direction of Hermione Jean Granger.”

The wand vibrated briefly and then began to spin slowly. It turned more sluggishly than the last time he had tried the Tracking Charm, even with Hermione right there before him. After a few moments it ceased turning, not once having pointed towards the witch in the room.

“We’ll find the mirror,” he said with a bravado he didn’t feel. 

A guttural laugh rumbled in her chest. “No, you won’t. I had my sister hide it, and I told her not to tell me where it was.”

Maybe if he kept her talking, he could glean a bit more information from her. “Then why did you attack Draco?” 

“Mummy told her traitorous boy where it’s hidden, yet he wouldn’t tell me.”

So Draco _did_ know where it was. But why was Snape taking so long? He was on the verge of sending his Patronus with a message when Snape appeared in the entryway, his face grey with strain.

“Draco is dead,” Snape said in a hollow voice. “There were... unforeseen complications.”

Hermione’s low chuckle soon turned into a full shrieking laughter. “Mine… all mine!”

Snape advanced on her, murder in his eyes, but Harry intercepted him. “No! You know that’s not her!” 

“She’s not in there anymore, Potter!” Snape snarled. He leaned close, seizing Harry’s wrist so tightly it ached. “Do you think that Hermione would want to live, knowing what she’s done?”

Even in the midst of his anger and fear, it was not lost on Harry that Snape had used her given name. “If we destroy that mirror we can deal with the possession afterwards. She said Draco knew where the mirror was,” he added, trying to ease the grip Snape had on his wrist. “Think; where would the Malfoys hide things they didn’t want to be found?”

Snape released him and stepped away, frowning. He paced for a moment, stopped, and then walked quickly into the drawing room. Harry followed, but stayed out in the hallway to keep an eye on Hermione. Snape waved his wand at the once-beautiful Persian rug that covered nearly the entire width of the room and sent it flying, baring the wooden floorboards underneath. He drew a symbol in the air, much like the writing Harry had seen Tom Riddle do in the Chamber of Secrets, and lowered his wand to guide it to lie in the middle of the floor. The figure glowed bright white for a moment and then sank into the wood. 

Nothing happened. “That’s it?” Harry asked.

Even as he finished his question, a slight rumble shook the room and, like the bricks at the entrance to Diagon Alley, the boards began flipping back in a complicated sequence to reveal a set of stairs that led down into a pitch-black hole. 

“Stay here,” Snape ordered. He cast a quick _Lumos_ and descended the steps.

Harry glanced at Hermione, who was watching the events calmly, with an expression of supercilious boredom. This made him edgy. If the mirror was indeed down there, shouldn’t she be worried? A few thumps, squeaks from shifting furniture, and a muffled expletive issued from below.

“Did you find anything?” Harry called down.

“Don’t you think I would be up there if I had, you simpleton?”

“A simple yes or no would have sufficed,” Harry snapped.

Snape’s head, along with the rest of his body, emerged from the darkness as he mounted the steps. He was carrying a large mirror, the surface smudged and bits of tarnish around the edges. “That’s your problem, Potter; you want simple answers for everything. However, life is—”

“Rarely simple, yes, I get it.”

“Obnoxious brat,” Snape said absently, as though it were an automatic response. He placed the mirror up against the wall. “Use the Elder Wand to shatter it.”

“How do we know it’s the right one? There are lots of mirrors in this place.”

“Besides being the exact dimensions of the empty space in the psychomanteum, it has a darkness that is familiar lingering about it.”

“I hope you’re right.” Withdrawing the wand, Harry stood back several feet and took aim. “ _Reducto_!” 

The spell ricocheted off the reflective glass. Snape instantly covered them both with a Shield Charm as the spell hit an already damaged china hutch in the drawing room, shattering everything inside. 

Harry looked at Snape, but Snape just arched a brow, clearly implying that Harry was not trying. “Fine. _Confringo_!”

This time, the spell shot off the mirror and hit the crystal chandelier that was hanging at an odd angle, shattering the fixture into tiny shards that bounced off the Shield Charm. 

“Again,” Snape intoned.

Harry frowned. “But—” Snape looked pointedly at him. Harry sighed and tried to remember the spell Hermione had taught him while they were on the run. “Erm, _Deprimo_!”

They ducked as the spell rebounded and blasted a hole in the wall behind them. 

Snape looked thoughtfully at it for a moment, then raised his wand. “ _Expulso_!”

Yet again, the mirror’s surface remained whole and undamaged. No matter the strength of the spell, no matter the caster, the mirror would not break.

No wonder Hermione—Bellatrix—hadn’t been worried. Harry looked at the knowing smirk on her face. “Why won’t it break?” he bit out.

She licked her lips and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t want to use force against the body of his friend, but their inability to destroy the mirror left them no choice. Harry turned to Snape, who was inspecting the edges of the mirror. “I think you should try Legilimency again.”

Snape paused. “Veritaserum as well.” He removed a phial from his coat.

“You carry that stuff on you?” Harry asked. “What, just in case you need to interrogate a random bystander?”

“One must always be prepared,” Snape said. “After your fifth year, I have always had a bottle on hand.” 

As he moved towards Hermione, her smile faded and she began to struggle. “ _Imperio_ ,” Harry said without hesitation. “Open your mouth.”

Hermione’s eyes clouded over and her mouth went slack. Snape let three drops fall onto her tongue. They waited for it to take effect, and then began.

“You will answer questions truthfully,” Harry said. “Now, why did the mirror not break?”

“Only one person can break it,” Hermione slurred listlessly. 

Harry and Snape looked at each other.

“Who can break the mirror?” Snape asked.

“The host.”

“The host?”

“Shut up, Potter!” Snape growled. “Concentrate on maintaining the Imperius! Who is…” He trailed off, frowning.

“Why, the Mudblood is the host, Snivellus!” Bellatrix’s voice said gleefully. “And since she’s gone, you cannot get rid of me.” Wicked laughter filled the room. 

“No,” Harry breathed. “Don’t believe her. Hermione’s in there somewhere.”

Snape rose slowly and crossed his arms. “Potter, we both know that Bellatrix will not destroy the mirror of her own accord, not even under the Imperius Curse. Convince me Miss Granger is still in there.”

Harry darted his gaze between Snape and Hermione. “Why?”

He sighed. “I want proof of her existence before I go mucking about in this one’s mind.”

“Does Bellatrix have access to Hermione’s memories?”

“It’s possible, though the more Miss Granger’s personality is suppressed, the less presence she has in the body, including her thoughts and emotions.” 

“All right,” Harry said, dubious. He racked his brain for something only he and Hermione would know. “What happened when we first met?”

“We fucked!” she shouted in mad laughter as she thrust her hips forward. 

Harry grimaced. “Who did you hope would ask you to the Yule Ball in fourth year?”

She turned to Snape and gave him a lascivious look. “Mmm, Professor Snape. I wanted him to bend me over his desk, and—”

“Silence!” Snape snapped.

Concentrating on his friend—their need to find her, to help her, to save her—Harry bent down in front of Hermione and caressed her face. “In sixth year, we were both pining over people that didn’t or couldn’t see us. Who were they?”

A grimace of pain marred her features, and he could almost see the two personalities battling for control. “Ron and Ginny,” she gasped, and then screamed, “Help me, oh please, help me!”

Harry stood. “Is that enough?” he choked out, her anguished cries like a dagger in his chest. 

Snape said nothing. His face was stony, not a trace of emotion visible. He Summoned another chair and sat studying Hermione closely until her screams stopped and she slumped over. For several minutes he was in deep thought, then he turned to Harry.

“I want you to listen very carefully, Potter. What I’m about to attempt is potentially volatile and deadly.” He held up his hand to forestall Harry’s interruption. “You _will_ abide by my commands in this, or I will not waste my time. Is that clear?” At Harry’s nod, he continued. “I am going to use Legilimency to isolate Bellatrix’s presence long enough for Miss Granger to take control and break the mirror. Since we must maintain constant eye contact, you must guide us.”

Harry could barely swallow past the lump in his throat. “What happens when the mirror breaks?”

“Theoretically, the last fragment of Bellatrix’s soul will be banished, at least according to the lore that governs mirror magic.”

“Where will it go?” Harry asked.

“Limbo, most likely.”

Panic clawed at Harry. “But if you’re in contact with her, keeping her under control, won’t you be pulled along with her?”

Snape arched a brow and smirked. “Then it is a good thing that I trust you to say my name loudly and make sure that I am severed from the contact completely, isn’t it, Potter?

So many emotions flooded Harry at that moment he couldn’t form a coherent thought. Snape trusted him to keep him and Hermione safe. He nodded and cleared his throat. “All right.”

“I will give you a signal when to start.” Snape gave Harry a long look. “If something should happen to me while I am locked in contact with Bellatrix, you will _not_ attempt to save me. Is that clear?”

“I-I can’t do that!”

“Potter!” Snape grabbed his wrist and squeezed. “Harry, you must honour my wishes in this. I do not want to live a half-life with Bellatrix Lestrange for company inside my head.”

Harry wiped away the tears that had fallen with his free hand. “I understand,” he whispered. He wouldn’t want live that way either, and to condemn Snape to that fate would be cruel indeed.

Snape nodded and released him. “On my signal.” He tapped Hermione’s cheek. “Miss Granger, wake up.”

Her eyes slowly opened and she gave them a devious smile. “The Mudblood isn’t here. But you can leave a message with me, and I’ll make sure she gets it.”

“Look at me,” Snape intoned imperiously as he pointed his wand at her. “ _Legilimens_!” 

The smile that had been on Hermione’s lips dropped as Snape entered her mind. Recalling his own tortuous Occlumency lessons during fifth year, Harry suspected Bellatrix was trying to resist to her fullest extent. And it showed. A slight sheen of sweat glazed her brow and Snape kept licking his dry lips. 

Hermione inhaled sharply and her back arched in a nearly impossible bow. “Potter, now,” Snape hissed.

Using a non-verbal _Mobilicorpus_ , Harry manoeuvred them from their seats and slowly guided them towards the mirror, making sure the two of them never lost eye contact with each other. He nearly faltered when he spied blood trickling from Hermione’s nose. The pressure within her head must be immense. For a moment he hesitated, wondering if maybe this was a mistake after all... but no, he refused to fail these two people, the most important in the world to him. He gritted his teeth and continued to guide them. 

As he positioned them in front of the mirror he noticed Snape had begun to tremble and blood was now trickling out of his nose and right ear. Firmly quelling his panicked urge to hurry, Harry conjured a heavy stone and slipped it into Hermione’s hand. When her fingers tightened instinctively around the rock, Harry leaned in and whispered, “Throw it, Hermione.”

The sound of breaking glass and Snape’s screams were the last sounds before everything went black.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW artwork at end of chapter.

The breeze is warm as it floats through the open window, the gauzy curtains billowing in the evening shadows like ghosts of people long gone.  And on nights like tonight, Harry enjoys the scent of gardenias that accompanies the soft air that brushes over his skin.

 

He has been in Australia for five years now, and sometimes, when he has bouts of morbid introspection, he dwells on the events that brought him here.  They are not bright and happy occasions, as he had hoped his life would be after Voldemort died.  Instead, they are rife with darkness, anguish, violence, and painful self-discovery.  However, if someone were to ask, “Would you do it all again?” Harry would say, “Yes, without a doubt.  A thousand times, yes.”

 

Once a year, Kingsley Shacklebolt checks in on Harry, and that’s one time too many.  He doesn’t know why the man continues to monitor him; he’s always in the same place, at the same job, in the same house as the last time.  The inquisition that had followed the horrific events of five years ago had been laughable at best.  Hearsay and conjecture were flung about, as well as a multitude of fingers pointed in Harry’s direction as the guilty party, or at least one of them.  When it seemed as if he were going to become Public Enemy Number One all over again, Harry had struck a costly bargain with Kingsley—one which affected everyone.

 

The Weasleys, once the welcoming family he had clung to in the absence of his own, denied him outright in the aftermath and continue to do so even now.  In the intervening years, George has died, whether from grief over Fred or the murder of his sister and father, Harry will never know.  Ron has refused any correspondence.  This hurts Harry more than he lets anyone know, but he supposes it’s not unexpected.  He’s not even sure Ron lives in Ottery St. Catchpole anymore.

 

The Elder Wand is safely tucked away in Dumbledore’s tomb.  Harry eventually destroyed all the mirrors in Malfoy Manor, for good measure.  He wants no possibility of Bellatrix’s return, or anything else that might have been lurking in that damnable room, to have any sort of freedom.

 

The Malfoy estate has been liquidated and their monetary assets seized by the Ministry.  A museum of sorts now sits on the former Manor grounds, dedicated to the struggles and loss suffered through several decades.  Harry finds an odd sort of irony in the fact that the Malfoy land is now open for Muggle-borns and others to traipse over.  Though he can summon no sympathy for Lucius, Harry often thinks that, had Draco had more time and the right influence, he could have become a decent wizard.  But it is a moot point now.   Draco’s potential, like that of so many others, will never be realised.      

 

Harry’s house is Unplottable and under one of the strongest Fidelius Charms he can conjure.  Kingsley is the only one who knows where Harry is, and when he dies, no one will know.  The last issue of the _Daily Prophet_  that Harry had read—how many years ago now?—was full of speculation that he had been murdered.  He laughed at the thought and then delighted in the screaming of Rita Skeeter’s picture as she burned when he set the paper alight. 

 

His life is not perfect, but it is as close to contentment as he suspects he will ever achieve, given all that has happened.  As Severus once told him, “Love is painful; get used to it.”  How true that turned out to be.

 

Harry rolls over and stares at the dark-haired wizard lying across the expanse of their overlarge bed, Hermione curled in between them.  They are both deeply asleep, and Harry enjoys these private moments that are his to savour. 

 

There are streaks of silver at Severus’ temples, and one long shock of white hair on the right side, the product of the stress he experienced during his battle with Bellatrix for Hermione’s freedom.  He often reminds Harry that he forgot to say his name before severing the connection.  But then Snape waves it off until the next time they have an argument, which is fairly often.  Snape is still irascible, snide and condescending; that will never change.  Harry doesn’t want it to.  If it did, Harry might have a coronary. 

 

No more of Severus’ memories were recovered.  Harry feels it is for the best; Severus remembers a girl named Lily in his childhood, but the pain surrounding those recollections is no longer present.  Severus rarely asks about Lily, and when he does, Harry only tells him that she was Harry’s mother and that she had died tragically, but that Severus had tried to save her.  Severus nods, looks at Harry a long time, and then disappears for hours.  Harry doesn’t ask why.  And though Severus will never admit it, he is oddly protective of Harry, as he has always been and no doubt ever will be.  He cares for Harry in his own way; he admitted as much when he told Hermione one night that, “Potter has become… tolerable.”  Harry was sure he wasn’t supposed to hear that exchange, but he has a habit of listening in on conversations—a product, he reasons, of being kept out of the loop by everyone for most of his adolescence.

 

Hermione’s appearance shows no permanent scars from her ordeal.  Her hair, teeth and eyes had returned to normal shortly after she broke the mirror, but she was in such a state of shock and the legalities of the situation were so undecided that Harry had kept her unconscious until he could ascertain what should be done.  He will never forget the third day of questioning during the inquisition, when Hermione was brought in and presented with the evidence of all that she had done in roughly a month’s time.  She had looked so lost and frightened, huddled on the chair in front of the full Wizengamot.  Though she understood the questions, she had no answers to give them.  She said she had no recollection of that dark time, that there were brief moments of lucidity followed by long periods of nothing but emptiness.  Snape had testified that retrograde amnesia was part and parcel of traumatic events such as the ones perpetrated on Hermione, that it was akin to living another life altogether—parallel but separate.  Harry believed them both, but the public, and the Weasleys in particular, clamoured for justice.  Or revenge. 

 

So Harry persuaded the Minister to strike a deal that would keep them all safe: Banishment, for Hermione _and_  Snape.    The Ministry considered Snape just as dangerous, even more so since he had never truly been brought up on charges for Dumbledore’s death.  If they tried to return, they would be imprisoned on sight, with no hope of reprieve.  And although it was not necessary, it was heavily suggested that Hermione be Obliviated, to prevent her from remembering the events of what transpired.  It was all they could offer a war hero, for the Ministry already thought they were being too lenient.

 

The Banishment did not apply to Harry, of course, although there had been much speculation about why he had not stopped her and some muttering about ‘special treatment’.  But he could not give up the people he loved, and so he went with them.

 

Harry has never regretted his choice.

 

He remembers Severus holding Hermione in a tender embrace when the Auror, specialising in Obliviation, entered the small room adjacent to the courtroom.  She knew why he was there, had agreed to it, unable to live with the knowledge of what she had done, but still… she cried.  Severus pressed a kiss to her temple, promising that he and Harry would stay with her.  It took every ounce of self-control Harry could muster not to hex the Auror as he wove his intricate spell.  As it began to take effect, the fear and anguish in her eyes dulled to a confused, lost look.  Eventually, she closed her eyes and slept.  Severus never let go of her. 

 

As a last request Harry had asked Kingsley to find Hermione’s parents; if she couldn’t return to Britain, perhaps she could at least still be with family.  It took Kingsley three days to locate them in South Yarra, a wealthy suburb of Melbourne.   Severus, Hermione and Harry have been there ever since.   

 

Harry did not know how much of Hermione’s memory had been erased.  In the beginning, she had questioned everything: Why were they in Australia?  Why was Severus with them?  Why couldn’t they go back home?  She didn’t like the restrictive wand she had been given, where was her old wand?  Harry and Severus answered as best they could without revealing much, but it was like walking through a minefield and the effort to keep their stories straight and quell her suspicions had been exhausting.  She never asked about Ron or the Weasleys, so Harry assumed the memory of them had been permanently removed from her mind.  After several months, to their relief, she accepted that there was probably something she was not supposed to know; by the end of the first year she was slowly rebuilding her relationship with her parents, and she never voiced her desire to return to England again.  

 

Midway through the second year, Harry had accidentally stumbled upon Severus and Hermione making love.  He didn’t know if it was their first time or not, but they looked so comfortable and intimate with each other that he assumed not.  They were too occupied with each other to notice him.  Voyeuristic tendencies aside, he had always been drawn to them both, so he watched unashamed as Severus curled his body around Hermione’s; how she arched up to meet his thrusts and wrapped her arms around him; their breathy groans; their quickened pace… their shattering completion.  Harry moved away while they were still wrapped around each other, hating the sticky mess in his jeans. 

 

Over the next two years, he continued to watch them as their feelings grew and blossomed until he very much felt like a third wheel.  One day, near his birthday in the fourth year of their exile, he was considering going away for a brief time—to gain his emotional bearings, if nothing else—and he happened by the room Severus and Hermione were, by then, openly sharing.  The door was open a crack, and they were lounging on the bed, kissing and touching each other.  Thinking to pass by that particular time, as his heart was especially heavy that day, Harry slipped past the door, but Severus called out an invitation to enter.  When he did, Hermione beckoned him to sit on the bed with them.  Wary, he sat on the corner and gave them a hesitant smile.  Soon, Hermione was pulling him in between her and Severus, and Harry had to close his eyes against the longing that overwhelmed him.  For so long had he kept himself separate from both Hermione and Severus in a vain attempt to keep his sanity, to fight his jealousy so that it wouldn’t poison their friendship.  For so long he had wanted to hold, touch and love them; to have a taste of what they experienced with each other. 

 

That night, they made love to him—slow, leaving no doubt he was as important to them as they were to him—and since then, he has never felt more complete.  No one speaks of the actual emotion that drives them all; there is no need.  Harry will never leave them.  They know and welcome this.  He does not always seek out their affection; he is too broken in some places that will never heal and there are times when he doesn’t wish to burden them with his thoughts.    

 

But sometimes, like tonight, when he lies next to Hermione and Severus in their overlarge bed and softly touches their skin, he is reminded of all that has transpired to bring them to this point.  As he touches Hermione’s cheek she opens her eyes and stares at him, unblinking.  She gives him a feral smile and just a hint of red flashes in her gaze.  Leaning over, she kisses him hard and retreats to snuggle into Severus.  Her breathing evens and Harry turns his attention to Severus, who has—as always—protectively enfolded Hermione within his arms.  Harry swallows and closes his eyes, knowing if he dared to voice any concern as to possible residual darkness, Severus would toss him out without a second thought.  And a life without them would not be worth living.

 

So Harry takes a note from Moody's book: Constant vigilance.

 

Always waiting, always watching, always loving them both.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surreal_angela's prompts:
> 
>  
> 
> _Voldemort is dead (or not - up to you), but the war continues. Severus' cover has been blown, and he's now right up there on the Undesirables list next to the Golden Trio. Two thirds of the Golden Trio distrust him (as do most of the Order), but Harry believes in him after having seen his memories. How does he gain Hermione's trust? Would love to see this one finish up with the end of the war, but I know that's a big ask. **I fused that prompt with this prompt:** Hermione has gone to the Dark Side. Not 'Over-organised benevolent dictator', but true, horrific, darkness. What pushed her to that point? And can Snape save her (and the world) from herself before he has to take her down?_
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to everyone that commented, bookmarked or gave kudos on this story - it was such a joy to work on!
> 
> Also, many HUGE thanks to Toblass and HowlingMojo - Toblass commissioned Mojo to create the fabulous, gorgeous artwork at the end. Mojo - you are beyond talented, and I'm so very grateful!
> 
> You can find HowlingMojo's other artwork on her DeviantArt page: http://howlingmojo.deviantart.com/


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